


In Shadows Cast by Dragon's Fire

by thelightofmorning



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Both Sides Suck, Burns, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Child Abandonment, Child Death, Child Neglect, Corpse Desecration, Crimes & Criminals, Emotional Hurt, F/M, Fantastic Racism, Fuck the Civil War, Genocide, Graphic Description of Corpses, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Imprisonment, Misogyny, Past Child Abuse, Religious Conflict, Scarring, War Crimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-05-23 05:08:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 18
Words: 35,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14927709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelightofmorning/pseuds/thelightofmorning
Summary: Almost executed for the crimes of being in the wrong place at the wrong time and the sins of her family, Aurelia Callaina survives Helgen and makes her way to the wretched hive of Riften in search of healing.Brynjolf's not going to lose the first bit of luck the Guild's had in a long time and while he can't do much about this particular lass' burn scars, he can offer all sorts of other benefits.Skyrim is ablaze with civil war and dragon's fire but in the shadows, a pair of Thieves make their own destiny.





	1. Lucky Charm

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, war crimes, imprisonment, misogyny, classism, criminal acts, religious conflict, corpse desecration, emotional trauma and mentions of genocide, rape/non-con, torture, child abuse, child abandonment, child neglect and child death. Going with an AU version of Korli that’s closer to her original concept. Using stuff from the Ta’agra Project for general Khajiit greetings.

 

During the six-day walk from Helgen to Riften, mostly spent skulking in the foothills of the Jeralls swathed in bandages and a ragged cloak, Aurelia Callaina concluded that both the Empire and the Stormcloaks could go fuck themselves. Bad enough a couple provincial Legionnaires who could barely read their own names decided her transfer papers weren’t legitimate and clapped her in irons. Worse yet was Tullius’ decision to make a clean sweep of the Aurelii by sending her to the block with the Stormcloaks simply because her estranged mother was married to the rebel leader. Worst of all was the return of the World-Eater and the subsequent annihilation of Helgen, half of the Bruma Fourth and a good many Stormcloaks. Casting Stoneflesh with one hand and Lesser Ward in the other barely allowed her to escape Helgen alive. She was most certainly not intact.

            Every night as she huddled under a tree or overhang, Callaina replaced the poultices on her right cheek and arm with fresh ones of hanging moss and blue mountain flower, accepting a lack of magicka in return for the prevention of infection. The burns would scar without proper attention from a Restoration mage and only Kynareth knew where the nearest one not affiliated with Legion, Temple or Stormcloak was. Her best bet was Riften, the southernmost major city of Skyrim, a place whose seedy reputation reached even her native County Bruma.

            The dark, dour pine trees of Falkreath Hold petered out around the third day, replaced by a barren stretch of snow-covered grey mountain dotted with bushes bearing blood-red berries that lasted about a day or so. It was around sunset on the fourth day that she found an abandoned shack complete with overgrown herb garden and alchemical equipment. The owner was missing, though some mossy bones lying scattered near the stand of aspen trees didn’t promise a happy ending to their journal. Callaina murmured a prayer to Arkay for their soul and made use of what remained, brewing potions and making poultices. The pain of her burns was easing but when she peeled away the old poultice on her arm to replace it with a fresh one, the pinkish-white scarring didn’t bode well. No sign of infection at least.

            There was a small village about a quarter day’s walk from the shack, located underneath a mighty mountain peak that touched the sky, but Callaina didn’t stop as there were no temples she could readily identify. Another day and night of travelling under golden aspen trees, shying rocks at wolves and hiding in bushes from bears, saw her approaching a ramshackle city from the south on the sixth day. When she tried to enter by the south gate, they told her to go around to the north gate, and she reluctantly obeyed.

            The stables were stocked with dappled grey horses, a wagon driver ate some bread nearby, and Khajiit were camped in a little space between the stables and a rocky outcrop. Callaina approached the caravan leader, a grey-and-black tabby female in green wool, and bowed her head. “Jobal kha’jay,” she greeted.

            “And bright moons to you too,” the Khajiit female replied. “This one is Ahkari. Have you come to do business with us?”

            With some difficulty, Callaina managed to sit down cross-legged across from Ahkari in the Khajiit manner. “I have some herbs and potions to trade,” she said. “I have need of a healer and most Temples require a generous donation.”

            “This one can tell you the Temple of Mara has no great healers in their ranks,” Ahkari said bluntly. “The Temple of Kynareth in Whiterun is the nearest source of Restoration magic outside of the College in Winterhold.”

            “Damn,” Callaina sighed. Two hours ago, her soft town shoes had split and her feet were covered in broken blisters that chafed painfully with every step. “I’ll still sell whatever you will buy.”

            It turned out that Ahkari was happy to buy the distillations of thistle and purple mountain flower as blood-warming potions, as the Khajiit weren’t made for the harsh northern climes of Skyrim, and handed over a small bag of septims for the three potions. Everything else was worthless unless mixed into potions, so she’d picked all those mushrooms, berries and mountain flowers for nothing.

            “This one has heard of a face sculptor in the Ragged Flagon,” Ahkari suggested sympathetically.

            “I can’t even afford a decent healing potion at the moment,” Callaina said with a sigh. “But thanks for telling me.”

            “So many refuse to talk to us. They call us thieves and smugglers. I am glad to see that you are not such a one,” Ahkari replied. “Can this one assist you in any other way?”

            “No, but thank you.” Callaina managed to rise. “Farewell.”

            “To you as well.”

            It was a short walk to the northern gate and the guard on the left smirked. “Before we let you through the gates, you have to pay the visitor’s tax,” he told her.

            “Visitor’s tax?” Callaina asked in disbelief.

            “For the privilege of visiting our fair city,” the guard continued, still smirking. “For you, it’s fifty septims.”

            “Is that a flat rate or does it work on a sliding scale?”

            “Huh?” he asked, blinking.

            “Never mind,” she said disgustedly. “I’ll just go down the hill and warn all the incoming travellers about the exorbitant toll you’re charging for entrance to the city.”

            “Ssh, quiet down, do you want everyone to hear you?” the guard hissed in sudden panic. “I’ll let you in if you don’t say anything to anyone. Brynjolf will have my nutsack for a dice pouch if word gets out.”

            So there was no visitor’s tax. “Good idea,” she said dryly.

            The guard quickly ushered her in and so Callaina entered the big bad city of Riften.

…

Brynjolf was just packing up for the day when the woman in the ragged cloak approached his stall. Bandages covered part of her face and much of her right arm, every step was halting, and her Cyrod garments of once-fine linen and soft leather were stained, tattered and scorched. “Lass, whatever you’re looking for, I can’t provide it,” he said after a pang of conscience. It was one thing to take advantage of some churl from the mountains who wanted to restore his hair and virility, another to provide false hope to someone in obvious need of help. “The Temple of Mara-“

            “Hasn’t got a healer or a decent healing potion among them,” she finished flatly. “I’m not even sure if they have a clue, if that idiot Maramal’s sermon in the tavern was anything to go by.”

            “What’s alcohol to blame for now?” Brynjolf asked dryly.

            “The dragons,” she said disgustedly. “If that halfwit had been at Helgen, he wouldn’t be blaming the drunks.”

            “Helgen?” The first rumours of fire and blood over in Falkreath Hold had drifted in over the past two days. It was only this morning that the local carriage driver told the guards he’d seen a dragon in the Velothi Mountains to the east. Maramal was certainly quick to start blaming the sinners of Riften for them.

            “Yes, Helgen. But I’m not here about that,” she said grimly. “I need a healing potion, preferably a powerful one, and I know your Guild can supply one.”

            “It won’t be cheap,” he warned.

            “No, it’ll be free.” Her visible eye, a vivid turquoise stained with gold, hardened. “Or I go to the Jarl and tell her about your half-cocked ‘visitor’s tax’ at the North Gate. Fifty septims a head! You tried that stunt in Bravil, they’d laugh your arse out of town wearing nothing but a pair of donkey ears.”

            Brynjolf blinked. “They charged you fifty septims?”

            “Tried to. I threatened to warn every incoming traveller of the toll and he let me in for nothing.”

            “Lass, I assure you, the fifty septims a head wasn’t my idea,” Brynjolf said gently. Had the curse on the Guild struck again? Or was this an opportunity in the form of a ragged, half-burned survivor of Helgen with the presence of mind to blackmail people for what she needed? “As for healing potions, I just can’t give you one, even if you threatened to go to the Jarl. But I could trade one in return for a small favour.”

            “Favour?” she asked warily.

            “Aye. I’d hoped to find someone to do a job for me while I ran the distraction, but I’m guessing you’re a bit too injured for that. If you could call everyone around to tell them about the dragons, I can do the job with no problems.”

            Her eye narrowed. “Do I look like a criminal?”

            “If you walked from Helgen to Riften for a healer, lass, when Whiterun’s a lot closer and they’ve got one of the best in Skyrim, you’re hiding from something,” he countered. “I’m not judging, lass. But we can help each other.”

            “Fine,” she said disgustedly. “What do I do?”

            “Gather everyone around and leave everything to me.”

            “Everyone, everyone!” she called out in a low, husky voice. “I have word from Helgen about the dragons!”

            Brynjolf ducked behind Madesi’s stall as the evening crowd gathered around the cloaked woman. It was child’s play to pick both locks and remove a certain silver ring of unique design. He slid the latticed door shut and rolled past the break in the stone wall around the marketplace as Grelka hurried over to catch the news. It was then just a matter of keeping low until he reached Brand-Shei where he sat on a crate, his belt-pouch pushed back as not to get caught on another crate.

            “What happened?” asked Madesi. “You look like you’ve been cooked on a spit!”

            “The Imperials captured several people in a carnificina designed to catch Ulfric Stormcloak,” the woman replied acidly. “A couple of hick Legionnaires from Falkreath didn’t believe my Synodic transfer papers were real, so I wound up in irons bound for the headsman’s block at Helgen. A dragon arrived just before Ulfric was due to lose his head and… well, take it from me, the stories of them breathing fire are real. If it wasn’t for my skills in Alteration and Warding, I’d be dead.”

            Time slowed like half-frozen honey as Brynjolf’s hand reached out, loosened the cord on Brand-Shei’s belt-pouch, and then dropped the silver ring inside with a slow tug on the cords to shut it again. It was probably no more than a half-minute and the dark elf was fixated on the woman’s story. Everyone could tell it was the truth from the visible bandages and scorch marks on her garments.

            “Damn,” Brand-Shei said as he rose to his feet. “And here I was hoping the dragons weren’t real. This is going to cut into my imports from Morrowind.”

            Brynjolf was already back among the crowd by the time the guards arrived, making his way to the dragon survivor. Her hood had fallen down – or been pushed back – to reveal tousled black hair, a number of stained bandages over the right side of her face, and olive-bronze skin. She was shorter than an average Nord woman but taller than most Imperial men, her raptor’s beak of a nose pure Cyrod and the square jaw pure Nord, her visible frame a bit too slender for her height. Probably a border Nord from County Bruma if she’d been apprehended in the Jerall Mountains by Kreathling Legionnaires.

            “You did well, lass,” he said with a faint smile. “I’ll take you down to Elgrim’s Elixirs now and buy you the best healing potion I can afford.”

            “What? I didn’t do anything!” Brand-Shei protested as the guard hauled him away for theft.

            “I’m not sure who I despise more at the moment,” the woman said bitterly. “Myself for helping you or you for being the only help I can afford.”

            “Brand-Shei managed to piss off someone fairly powerful,” he murmured. “He’ll hopefully learn a lesson after a couple nights in jail and a stiff fine.”

            “And if he doesn’t?”

            “Then I fear it’s the Dark Brotherhood. Maven Black-Briar doesn’t fuck around.”

            “Lovely little city you have here,” she noted sardonically.

            “Windhelm’s worse. Ulfric would just lop Brand-Shei’s head off for offending a Nord.” Brynjolf tilted his head. “Did that warmongering bastard manage to survive Helgen?”

            “I don’t know and I don’t care.” She lifted her hood to conceal her features once again. “Can we get this healing potion? I’m at the end of my rope.”

            By the time they got to Elgrim’s shop, the poor lass was leaning against Brynjolf like he was a crutch. The old alchemist was just closing up for the night but when he saw the state she was in, he quickly unlocked his door once again.

            Half an hour later, fresh poultices were wrapped around her face, right arm and feet with clean bandages, her ragged clothing had been replaced by an old shift and dress of Hafjorg’s, and she’d been dosed with a heavy sleeping potion that also dulled pain. “It’s too late to do anything more for those scars,” Elgrim told Brynjolf quietly. “I haven’t seen burns that bad since I tended a Redguard who’d been hit with Stros M’kai Fire. She did a good job of preventing infection with those moss and mountain flower poultices, but Galathil’s the only one who can lessen the scarring.”

            “If she’s got thirty septims to her name, then I’m a Stormcloak,” Brynjolf replied softly as he picked the poor woman up carefully. “A dragon did this, Elgrim. You and Ingun better prepare more fire resistance potions and burn poultices.”

            “By the Nine.” Elgrim sighed and shook his head. “I’ve done all I can, Brynjolf.”

            “I know.” He nodded to the generous pouch of coin on the counter. “That should cover the potions and poultices. If not, send word to the Flagon and I’ll fix up the difference.”

            “It should do.” Elgrim made a shooing motion. “Now get out of my shop.”

            Brynjolf stuck to the shadows as he made his way to the Cistern’s hidden entrance. The woman’s head lolled back and her features were slack. Elgrim made a pretty good pain-killing potion, even if he was vague on a lot of other things.

            Sapphire and Rune were by the ladder into the Cistern, gently taking the dragon survivor from his hands. “Brand-Shei job went without a hitch thanks to her,” Brynjolf explained as he closed the manhole cover. “I’m not minded to leave my first bit of luck in ages at the Temple of Mara.”

            “She’s a sharp one,” Sapphire agreed. “She… Well, she talked me out of trying to get blood from a stone.”

            “Shadr?” Brynjolf asked with narrowed eyes.

            “I… Yes.” The Eastmarcher flushed.

            “You can’t shear a sheep twice in one day, lass,” he reminded her. “Do me a favour?”

            “Sure.” Sapphire appeared eager to change the subject.

            “Track down Gjuki in the guard and remind him the visitor’s tax is to be no more than ten septims,” Brynjolf growled as they put the lass in the spare bed near the door to the Flagon. “Bastard’s been charging fifty.”

            “Fifty? That’s an outright rort!” Rune exclaimed.

            “Aye. As Sapphire said, this one’s a sharp one. She saw right through him and threatened to warn everyone unless he let her in.” He grinned. “Then she tried to blackmail me into giving her a healing potion despite her injuries.”

            Sapphire chuckled richly. “I saw her running the distraction on the Brand-Shei job.”

            “A born sister in crime,” Rune said approvingly.

            “That’s what I was thinking. She was nearly executed at Helgen by the Legion, so I’m guessing she’s on the run from them.” Brynjolf’s grin broadened. “She’s the first bit of luck to come to the Guild since Gallus died. I’m going to make it worth her while to stay with us.”

            He gently pulled the blanket up on his lucky charm. “Once she sees the benefits of the Guild, I don’t think she’ll want to leave. She needs us… and I think we need her.”


	2. Loud and Clear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Mention of child abandonment, rape/non and torture.

 

Callaina’s eyes cracked open. Judging by the persistent drip of water and the quality of light filtering through a grate in the ceiling, she was underground, probably in the Ratways that one guard mentioned in passing to another. She sat up slowly, her face, arm and feet encrusted in something dry and smelling of stale porridge. Whatever the poultices were, they didn’t contain that magicka-draining moss, as the small amount she expended to call lighting between thumb and forefinger returned after she cancelled the spell. Her ruined robes had been replaced with a simple dress made from slightly scratchy wool and a shift of coarse cotton, both undyed and fraying at the edges from long wear.

            The first thing in order was a bath. Now the pain of her burns were reduced to a distant throbbing ache she could easily ignore, the oily skin and greasy hair of too many days without hygiene made her flesh crawl. Her stomach was an empty abyss under her ribcage, but she could ignore hunger. Water for drinking and water for bathing were the priority.

            The underground chamber she was in was roughly circular with four separate exits, one of them sealed with heavy metal doors and chains. Various ne’er-do-wells in earthy brown or dust grey leathers went about their business, one shooting arrows at a target with a magnificent blue-green glass bow, another stirring something vegetablish in a cooking pot over a small firepit, and a third counting out septims at a table. Two in silver-studded black leathers, one of them the auburn-haired Brynjolf and the other a lean, wiry Breton with iron-grey hair, were having a quiet conversation near an ornate desk and shelves.

            “So you’re awake.” The extortionist Sapphire was sitting on the bed next to Callaina’s, wearing a breast-band and loose breeches as she was clearly repairing her own set of black sleeveless leathers. Whatever else she might be, the tall, black-haired Nord woman had superb musculature and pale skin seamed with wicked scars. She was clearly no stranger to violence.

            “Apparently so,” Callaina croaked.

            “To spare you asking questions, you’re in the Cistern, Elgrim’s potion knocked you out for a couple days, and Brynjolf’s been arguing hard to have you accepted into the Guild. Our Guildmaster Mercer Frey doesn’t believe in luck despite things going downhill these past few years due to the lack of it.” Sapphire poured a wooden cup of water and offered it to Callaina, who accepted it with slightly shaky hands. “Your remaining with us is dependent on you dealing with the Goldenglow problem.”

            “Goldenglow?” Callaina asked after drinking some musty water. If she was being hunted by the Legion after escaping Helgen, the Guild might be the best place to hide until she could find someone who’d accept her explanations – or even join the team in Mzulft and have Paratus clear matters with General Tullius.

            “The estate that provides most of the honey for Maven Black-Briar’s meadery.” That was Brynjolf, who’d hurried over. “We made sure it was running smoothly and sorted out any problems. Last week, the owner Aringoth threw out the guard and the Guild, hired a nasty bunch of mercenaries, and barricaded himself inside the manor house. Maven’s fit to be tied and when we sent in our best infiltrator to find out what the hell was going on, Vex nearly died and barely got away.”

            “So this Mercer’s throwing me to the wolves?” Callaina raked back her hair, grimacing at the greasy feel.

            “I’ve managed to talk him into making it a two-man job,” Brynjolf quickly assured her. “I’ll have your back, lass.”

            “I… appreciate you helping me,” Callaina told him. Best to get the gratitude out of the way. That she owed a group of criminals her life was irritating, but better that than dead.

            “Keep on giving us good luck, lass, and it’ll be worth it.” Brynjolf sighed and rubbed his bearded jaw. “Elgrim told me you’d prevented infection on those burns but they’d still scar. Until you’ve got the gold for Galathil’s services, you’ll be living with them, I’m afraid.”

            Galathil had to be the face sculptor she vaguely remembered hearing about. “I’m more concerned about a bath than my scars,” she said honestly. “Do you have some soap and water?”

            They had soap, water and a little alcove where she was able to undress, peel off the encrusted poultices, and wash herself in semi-privacy. The little brass mirror in the alcove revealed the scarring was pinkish-white and covered much of her right cheek from the bottom of her eye to just past her jaw and the outside of her right arm from shoulder to wrist. By grace of the gods, she could still see and use her arm. She could still cast if need be.

            It took two changes of water and half a cake of soap harsh with lye to scrub a week’s worth of dirt and soot from her skin and hair, before she felt something resembling herself. The ends of her long black hair were scorched and she borrowed a dagger from Sapphire to hack it shorter and create some bangs that would hide some of the facial scarring. She pulled the rest into a loose ponytail, put on her clothing, and went back into the Cistern proper.

            “Well, well,” said one of the two male Nords, a brown-haired, vaguely weaselly lout, with a leer. “Is there anything I can do for you… or to you?”

            “Now why would she want the company of Vipir the Fleet, the only man foolish enough to name himself after his bedroom prowess?” Sapphire asked with poisonous sweetness.

            “Stupid cow,” Vipir the Fleet spat. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”

            “If you keep it up, you’ll be the one missing,” Sapphire promised flatly. “Now piss off and give her some space.”

            Vipir slouched off, grumbling darkly, and Callaina realised she’d called Sparks to her hand instinctively. “Sorry,” she said with a flush as she cancelled the spell. “I’ve found lightning to be a great deterrent for grabby jackasses.”

            “If Vipir gets ‘grabby’, lightning will be the least of his problems,” Sapphire said with a grin.

            Brynjolf was waiting for them in the centre of the Cistern. “Do I need to break Vipir’s fingers?” he asked with a tight mouth.

            “No. I think he’s getting the idea that no self-respecting woman wants him,” Sapphire said cheerfully. “Apparently our lucky charm here has a lightning spell for people like Vipir.”

            Callaina realised she hadn’t given anyone her name. “I’m sorry. I’m Callaina,” she said with a flush. “Aurelia Callaina, Journeyman Alchemist from the Synodic chapterhouse in County Bruma.”

            “I remember you saying something about transfer papers,” Brynjolf observed. “So you’re a mage?”

            “Yes,” she confirmed. “My main training is in alchemy and enchanting but I have a scattering of spells from the Schools of Alteration, Destruction and Restoration.”

            “No Illusion?” Brynjolf asked, sounding a bit disappointed.

            “I received some training in the theory of it as a child but…” Callaina sighed. “My paternal grandfather was the leader of the Bruma Rebellion. I was declared Immunitas because I was only eight, but that didn’t stop the Elder Council from, ah, making sure the Synod guided my magical education in appropriately non-dangerous directions.”

            “Sins of the father, eh?” Brynjolf shook his head. “Well, lass, we’ve got a few days to sort out the Goldenglow mess. I think we can spare a day or two teaching you a little bit of stealth. You’re already light on your feet, so you should pick it up quickly.”

…

It turned out that while Callaina knew no Illusion spells, she could silently cast and jiggle open a lock with a Telekinesis spell. Delvin told Brynjolf she already had a knack for stealth and remaining unnoticed that would serve for the infiltration of Goldenglow Estate. “Since we intend to make an example of them mercenaries, it isn’t a case of sneaking in and sneaking out while leaving most of the place intact,” the Night Master said. “She’s quiet enough to infiltrate and ambush.”

            That was a relief. Maven was getting tetchier by the day and that meant Mercer was on his neck.

            Three days after her arrival in Riften, they left the city under cover of darkness. Vex had given them an entrance she used, a sewer that led from the side of the island to right near the house. The water was tolerable in the late summer evening, so they swam from little island to little island until they reached the bigger one Goldenglow was located on.

            Callaina was little more than a shadow in the darkness, wearing plain black robes Tonilia had scavenged from somewhere that shone subtly in the folds with enchantment. “Muffled,” she explained. “I bought a petty soul gem from Rune to enchant them up at the Keep. Wylandriah is… pretty damn clueless, to be honest. Any court wizard as incompetent as her would be drummed out of her position within the year. She just let me use the enchanting table, no problem.”

            She sounded offended on a personal level and Brynjolf hid a grin. He’d managed to coax a little more of her story from her over the past two days and got the rest from Vex, who’d belonged to the Bruma Thieves Guild just after the Great War. The Empire had shown mercy to the remaining Aurelii in Cyrodiil… and never let Callaina forget that fact. Apparently her uncle Irkand, the same one who’d ruined a deal of Tonilia’s and nearly got her charged with ‘facilitating necromancy’ in Haafingar, was the more trusted because he’d been pivotal in the Battle of the Red Ring by the Emperor’s own admission, though how so had never been revealed.

            No, it had been Callaina who bore the brunt of Imperial ire, raised in a workhouse and sent to the Synod at sixteen because of her undeniable magical talent. Of course, her advancement was stalled and her training relegated to the unglamorous grunt work of alchemy and enchantment. As the son of a Reachman raised in Honorhall Orphanage, Brynjolf could sympathise with the lack of prospects and hope for the despised child of an enemy at the hands of the victors.

            They reached the door without attracting notice and Callaina placed a palm over the lock, only a burst of blue-green light and the click of an opening lock giving her presence away. They crept inside and Callaina held up her hand, the other gesturing with a blue-green glow. “Five on this level, five upstairs, and three in the cellars,” she murmured into his ear.

            Brynjolf nodded and unsheathed his steel shortsword. “We make an example of them, lass. We clear out the guards and then confront Aringoth. Help yourself to any valuables on the way too.”

            Callaina’s eyes flashed with distaste but she nodded. “Understood. Frost and shock spells it is.”

            The mercenaries were competent, Brynjolf would grant them that, but even the heartiest Nord warrior couldn’t fight with an ice spike to the knee or a wrenched ankle from slipping on ice. He cut their throats neatly and took whatever potions, uncut gems or septims they had in their pockets. Callaina needed reminding to do so and she vomited in the kitchen at one point. He said nothing of it.

            They found the safe containing Aringoth’s valuables in the cellar and aside from a generous amount of gold and gems, it contained a bill of sale. “Aringoth’s sold Goldenglow?” Brynjolf said in astonishment. “He has no idea of Maven’s rage when she finds out she’s been cut out of a deal.”

            “Maven’s so important then?” Callaina asked, wiping her hands on her hips.

            “She’s the biggest mead producer in Skyrim, Jarl in all but name in the Rift, and has numerous contacts among the Empire and Thalmor,” Brynjolf explained with a sigh. “She’s the only thing keeping the Guild from collapsing at the moment.”

            “It’s never good to put your eggs in one basket,” Callaina noted. “Let’s get this Aringoth and get out of here.”

            The guard shift had changed and so more mercenaries were in the ground floor of the manor house. It was a repeat of earlier and Callaina’s expression was grimmer with every kill. “I feel like an assassin,” she said unhappily at one point.

            “I know this kind of sellsword, lass. If they can’t get honest work, they’ll turn to banditry of the worst sort,” Brynjolf told her. “If they had any sense of honour, they’d be Companions or the city guard.”

            “I still don’t like it,” she said flatly.

            “Most of our work doesn’t involve killing,” he said. “But these lot nearly killed Vex and if she hadn’t gotten away, they’d have abused her until she was dead. _That’s_ why we’re making an example of them.”

            They returned upstairs and confronted a cowering Aringoth in his bedroom. Brynjolf swiped the honeybee statuette of purest Alinor gold as Callaina distracted the Bosmer. “Was this worth it?” she demanded. “All the dead mercenaries, all the… gah!”

            “I didn’t expect to get away with it,” Aringoth admitted unhappily. “Those mercenaries weren’t their fee.”

            “I hope you’ve got plans to leave Skyrim, lad,” Brynjolf said with deceptive pleasantness as he walked over to the corner where Aringoth cowered. “Maven’s not going to be happy.”

            “Maven Black-Briar can fuck herself with a daggerthorn cactus from Hammerfell for all I care,” Aringoth said bluntly. “I only sold the estate because I’m sick of her and sick of Riften.”

            Brynjolf cracked open the seal on the bill of sale, whistling softly as he read. “Well, well, our favourite Argonian in Solitude’s involved. Gulum-Ei’s got some explaining to do.”

            He folded the parchment and raised an eyebrow to Aringoth. “You better get a fast horse and cross the Jeralls to Cyrodiil before I give this to Maven, lad.”

            Aringoth blinked. “You’re letting me go after killing all my mercenaries?”

            “We made an example of them because they hurt Vex. All you’ve done, so far, is piss off Maven and if she wants you dead, she can hire the Brotherhood.”

            “Leave your weapons behind,” Callaina ordered, nodding at the fine elven bow and quiver of steel-headed arrows near Aringoth. “Because my spells are faster than your arrows.”

            They escorted Aringoth outside… and ran into another squad of his guards. “Kill them!” the Bosmer yelled as he bolted for the gate.

            Callaina cast an ice spike that caught him in the back, sending him sprawling facedown in the dirt, and another spell that hardened her skin enough to deflect the arrows of the two archers who aimed for Brynjolf simultaneously. The Day Master cursed and drew his sword, trusting her to handle the archers.

            When the last scuffle was over, all that remained was to burn three of the four skeps, and Callaina did that with a few well-placed firebolts. “So what happens now?” she asked bitterly.

            “We report back to Mercer and track down Gulum-Ei,” he told her. “Maven will want to know who bought the estate.”

            “How do you live with yourself, framing innocent people and ruining their livelihood?” she asked.

            “In my case, I have no big problem with it, because Stormcloaks killed my family just after the Great War,” Brynjolf admitted. “The Empire called them in to wipe out the Ard Ri and his people simply because the Reach-folk wanted their land back. Now the monsters they created are biting the Legion’s hand and it couldn’t happen to a nicer bunch.”

            “My mother is a Stormcloak,” she said sourly. “Married to Ulfric and everything, apparently. That’s why Tullius sent me to the block, even though she left me behind in Cyrodiil.”

            Brynjolf blinked. “Your mother’s _Sigdrifa Stormsword_?”

            “Sadly, yes.”

            Now that he took a closer look at her in the early morning sunlight, he could see a softening of the Stormsword’s square craggy features and eyes of a similar blue-green. “Aye, I see it, lass. You certainly drew a bad hand, didn’t you?”

            “Yes.” She shook her head. “Let’s go back to the Cistern.”

            Brynjolf smiled as they walked towards the gate. “Let me tell you about the time I broke into the Palace of Kings in Windhelm and ran her underwear up with the banners…”

           


	3. Dampened Spirits/Dragon Rising

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

“Maven wants to see us, lass.”

            It was two days after the Goldenglow job and Brynjolf interrupted Callaina’s perusal of the second volume in the _Mystery of Talara_ series. Despite being trashy melodrama from High Rock, the novel contained an educational description of healing processes and the use of Restoration spells, and she was trying to implement it via practice. So far, it was slow going, and she wasn’t happy to be bothered.

            “Why?” she asked, closing the book. “I did everything she asked.”

            “Aye,” Brynjolf confirmed. “But she’s got a job over for us in Whiterun.”

            “Give me a minute.” Callaina gave her hair a quick comb and wrapped a homespun cloak over her plain peasant’s dress. Down here, she was always cold and she had no desire to have Maven see her shivering and assume it was fear.

            The matriarch of the Black-Briar clan was in a small alcove upstairs from the Bee and Barb’s taproom. “You’re late,” she snapped.

            Callaina regarded Maven frankly. Silver-threaded black hair, still-handsome features given a cast of dissatisfied ruthlessness by the lines that dragged down her sour mouth, and fine cotton brocade in muted maroon and wheat-gold. She was a power in this part of Skyrim, easily the Jarl in all but name, but not half as important as she thought to the Empire. “You didn’t give us a time,” she retorted coolly before Brynjolf could speak.

            “I could break your Guild with a snap of my fingers,” Maven hissed in reply.

            “But you won’t. Because you couldn’t afford to replace us with professionals who’d answer only to you,” Callaina said serenely. “Where would you import them from? No self-respecting Colovian or Nibenese would leave the wealthy hubs of Anvil or Cheydinhal for a rundown backwater in Skyrim without the offer of enough gold to buy half of County Bruma. Redguards and Bretons would stand out too much this far into the Old Holds, assuming they’d be willing to leave their more prosperous countries for one wracked with civil war at the behest of a provincial power. Dunmer and Altmer would disdain your coin unless desperate, beast folk and Orcs couldn’t be used for anything requiring subtlety. So, despite our diminished state, I think we’re quite safe from you, Maven Black-Briar.”

            The mead-maker stared at her for a moment before laughing in grudging admiration. “I wish my children had half your perception, Aurelia Callaina. You are correct, as much as it galls me to admit it.”

            “So what’s the job?” Brynjolf asked diplomatically.

            Maven scowled. “You’re going to Honningbrew Meadery and shutting it down. Mallus in Whiterun can tell you more.”

            “Who’s Mallus when he’s at home?” Brynjolf asked mildly.

            “He’s my agent. Sabjorn and his wretched swill have captured too much of a market share for my liking and he refuses to work with me. So therefore he must be destroyed and a new branch of Black-Briar Meadery open in the west.”

            “Lovely,” Callaina drawled. “Is there any difference between your mead and his? It all tastes like piss to me.”

            “I don’t expect someone from Cyrodiil to appreciate the subtleties in mead,” Maven replied coolly. “Can I count on you to get it done, Brynjolf? I don’t want that idiot getting more customers while my honey production is interrupted.”

            “Of course, Maven,” Brynjolf said calmly.

            “Good. You have a week.” Maven nodded curtly. “You’re dismissed.”

            Outside the Bee and Barb, Brynjolf swore long and low. “Why did you try to provoke her like that, lass?”

            “Because she’s not half as important as she thinks she is,” Callaina told him. “I’ve met a half-dozen of her ilk in Cyrodiil.”

            “She could still have you thrown into prison for the rest of the Fourth Age,” he pointed out.

            “There isn’t a cell that could hold me,” she said serenely. “So are we heading to Whiterun immediately or will we take a couple days?”

            “Immediately. Delvin and Vex have minor jobs they want done there.” Brynjolf rubbed his bearded chin. “How we divide the chores will depend on what Mallus wants us to do.”

            “Between you and me, Maven would be an idiot to eliminate the Honningbrew brand,” Callaina said as they returned to the Cistern. “The illusion of competition and choice works better than a blatant monopoly.”

            “Between you and me, lass, I don’t fucking care how much mead she sells,” he replied dryly. “Because, as you say, it all tastes like piss to me.”

            They were on the night carriage to Whiterun by sunset, Brynjolf paying the driver handsomely. Callaina cast Candlelight and continued to peruse _Mystery of Talara, Book II_ , stopping only to renew the spell or practice Close Wounds on herself. Restoration was the close cousin of Alteration, both Schools producing miraculous results when used in unison.

            She napped for a couple hours as they went past Ivarstead and into the winding pass that divided the Rift from Falkreath. The carriage trundled by Helgen’s blackened ruins and she shuddered at the half-melted rock.

            “By the gods,” Brynjolf breathed. “You survived that?”

            “I did. Barely.”

            The carriage passed through a village characterised by a row of cottages, a smithy and a lumber mill, stopping in front of the inn as a heavy-shouldered, plain-faced man in Imperial Legion steel stepped in front of it. “Are you going to Solitude?” he asked in a soft, deceptively pleasant voice.

            “No, but you can transfer at Whiterun,” the driver said.

            “Fine.” The Quaestor handed over a few coins and climbed aboard.

            “Hadvar,” Callaina greeted flatly. This was going to be awkward.

            “Callaina,” he said. “I see you survived Helgen.”

            “No thanks to you and those idiots from the Falkreath guard,” she said waspishly.

            “The decision to send you to the block wasn’t mine. If you recall, I protested it. Tullius and Tribune Iulia made the call.” Hadvar arranged his bulk on the seat across from her as the wagon started to roll forward. “You should go to Solitude. Gods know we have a shortage of mages in the Legion.”

            “You and the Stormcloaks can go to hell for all I care,” Callaina said wearily. “I was very nearly executed illegally. My transfer papers to the Mzulft team were legitimate.”

            “I believe you. But you have to understand Tullius’ point of view. Here is the daughter of Sigdrifa Stormsword, a mage of some talent, crossing the border at a time when her mother is rebelling against the Empire.”

            “I should have been held in custody and a message sent to Fort Pale Pass,” she said flatly. “The Legate there would have confirmed it.”

            “Your mother is a traitor-“

            “My mother is a piece of shit and if she never sees Sovngarde, it’s too good for her,” Callaina interrupted acidly. “I’m not going to join the Stormcloaks, Hadvar, but damned if I’ll march to the Legion drums after you nearly fucking killed me!”

            “I understand. But Skyrim is a warzone and Legate Primus Rikke might just conscript you anyway,” Hadvar replied. “If I were you, I’d get my arse to the Mzulft team or the College as soon as possible. That’ll prove you weren’t here to join the rebellion.”

            Brynjolf wisely remained silent until they’d disembarked at Whiterun. Hadvar immediately transferred to the carriage to Solitude while they headed for the city. She muttered choice Akaviri words once they were out of earshot.

            “Bit of a cunt?” the auburn-haired Nord asked.

            “More than a little,” she said fervently. “He’s the most by-the-book arsehole to ever wear a Quaestor’s tunic.”

            “Good. I picked his pocket.” Brynjolf pressed a small bag into her hand.

            She laughed and shook her head as they walked to the gates.

…

The two minor jobs Brynjolf did – steal an heirloom from the Grey-Manes and plant a stolen ruby in Wintersand Manor – went like a charm and he was able to sit around the Bannered Mare for most of the day until Callaina returned at sunset. Her dusty-black robes should have stood out among the brightly clad crowd but somehow she reached his corner table undetected. “It’s done,” she said flatly. “Mallus neglected to mention the insane alchemist breeding venomous rats in the basement, just so you know.”

            “Oh?” Well, that wasn’t right. “Did he give you any grief?”

            Her snort said it all. While there were more powerful mages out there, Brynjolf had to admit that Callaina knew how to use every spell in her meagre arsenal well and to full effect. “Well, I bought you a present,” he told her with a smile as he handed over an enchanted silver ring. “Belethor at the general store told me this will lessen the magicka needed for Destruction spells.”

            Her expression softened a little. “Thank you, Brynjolf. I should be getting a proper set of robes, preferably ones enchanted with a combined magicka-regenerative and magicka-decreasing effect.”

            Most of those words were Akaviri to Brynjolf but he smiled. “I’ll have Tonilia keep her eyes out for a set. Any particular style or colour?”

            “Sturdy,” was her response. “When are we going back to Riften?”

            “Tomorrow morning,” he promised. “Only an amateur rushes back to his base.”

            Callaina looked doubtful but nodded.

            It was an overcast dawn when they left the city, Brynjolf having hired rooms at the Bannered Mare. Callaina was a silent shadow in her black robes, the scars on her cheek invisible in the colourless light. She was adapting better than Brynjolf expected. Maybe she was even trying to heal the scars herself; she’d practiced a healing spell most of the way from Ivarstead to Riverwood.

            They were waiting for the carriage at the stables when something big and bat-winged flew overhead, belching sooty orange flame at the western watchtower. “Get under cover!” Callaina yelled. “Dragon attack!”

            Brynjolf didn’t need telling twice. He dove under the nearest haystack and prayed the dragon wouldn’t set anything on fire for fun. Much to his shock, Callaina cast a skin-hardening spell that sheathed her in crystalline energy and ran for the western watchtower, a group of guards led by the Jarl’s huscarl following shortly after. What the hell was the woman thinking?

            From his vantage point, the battle with the dragon was dramatic enough, and he didn’t want to get any closer. Irileth cast lightning that crawled silver-blue over the dragon’s scales in the grey light while Callaina’s ice spikes were faintly blue-green as they tore through its webbed wings. The guards used bows, arrows and swords to attack the beast while one agile lad jumped down from the ruined tower to drive a gold-hilted sword through its spine. “Dovahkiin? Niid!” the dragon screamed before transforming into sooty-edged flame that became white-gold light. Said light spiralled in on the acrobat as the guards gasped in amazement.

            Callaina returned while the others were busy, helping Brynjolf out of the haystack. “So we’ve got ourselves a Redguard Dragonborn,” she noted calmly. “Are you alright?”

            “What were you thinking to go play hero?” he demanded.

            “Dragons – ordinary dragons – can die,” Callaina said. “The one that destroyed Helgen was the World-Eater. I remember that Redguard kid. He was due to be decapitated just as Alduin attacked.”

            She looked over her shoulder as “DOVAHKIIN!” thundered across the sky. “I may have divided allegiances for a while,” she said quietly. “I don’t know everything about dragons, but my father and grandfather were Blades before the Thalmor purge, and I know something about them. I used to listen to old Esbern all the time as he talked about the dragons and the Prophecy of the Dragonborn.”

            “Esbern? Old, Nord, green eyes?” Brynjolf asked in astonishment.

            “Yes. He was the Fourth Blade, the loremaster of the order,” Callaina said, looking back at him.

            “He’s living in the Ratway these days, lass. Came to us about, oh, ten years ago and hasn’t left since.” Brynjolf eyed the skeleton with a shudder. “You don’t have to dedicate yourself to the Guild full time, lass. Sapphire part-times with the Dark Brotherhood and Cynric takes independent contracts.”

            “That’s… good to know. I think joining the College of Winterhold would be a very good idea, both to convince the Legion I’m not a traitor and to learn what I can about dragons. They say the Ysmir Collective is one of the oldest libraries in human lands…” Callaina shook her head. “One thing at a time. We better get back to Riften. Wouldn’t want to keep Maven waiting.”

            They caught the carriage and Brynjolf eyed Callaina thoughtfully. He could think of all kinds of jobs for a Thief who attended the College of Winterhold…


	4. Scoundrel's Folly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

Maven paid them in enchanted trinkets before giving a casual dismissal. Callaina bit her tongue as they returned to the Cistern. The sooner she got to the College and washed her hands of Riften, the better. Brynjolf wasn’t so bad but Maven and Frey got on her nerves.

            “Keep this up and I might start to respect you,” Delvin said as he handed over a pouch of coin to Brynjolf. “How’s our little sorceress going?”

            “She’s thinking of going to the College,” Brynjolf replied with a glance at Callaina she chose to ignore. “Maven and Mallus neglected to mention the crazed alchemist in the basement.”

            “Fuckin’ hell. You might be onto something with her being our lucky charm. We got jobs pouring from Windhelm, Markarth and Solitude.” Delvin shook his head. “Tonilia’s brought in some magic stuff special for her.”

            “I appreciate it,” Callaina said over her shoulder. “I’ll probably need them.”

            “We saw a dragon attack,” Brynjolf said, taking a seat at Delvin’s table. “Some Redguard kid’s the Dragonborn, Callaina had to go prove herself a bloody hero, and it appears our resident kook in the Vaults is a Blade who’s studied dragons.”

            “Dragons can die, unless they’re the World-Eater, and the Dragonborn will have the task of banishing him,” Callaina said, turning to face them. “I’m going to have divided allegiances for the time being, Delvin, because the dragons will destroy the world otherwise.”

            “Hey, we all got extracurricular interests,” the Night Master said. “If you go to the College, could you, ah, acquire some things for us? Vekel’s got a buyer for necromantic literature and Vex is looking for the Stones of Barenziah. They’re pink agates cut in a diamond shape set in a red-gold box.”

            _If I didn’t owe them…_ “I’ll see what I can do. But I won’t jeopardise my standing in the College, if they take me, for it.”

            “Fair enough, lass. I think Gallus had a contact in the College – a Bosmer named Enthir. See if he’s willing to collaborate?” Brynjolf smiled roguishly. “I’m sure, as you know, sorcery is an expensive business.”

            “I know,” she said testily. “I’ll pass on the message.”

            “Bless you, darling,” Delvin said with a smile of his own.

            She reluctantly returned the smile. They were likeable people for all their blatantly criminal ways.

            Tonilia was seated up on the deck over the pool behind the crates. Callaina handed over all her loot, mostly enchanted weapons and pieces of armour she couldn’t use, and the Redguard did a quick tally. “Five hundred septims in cash or six-fifty in trade,” the fence finally said. “I got a few spell tomes if you want them.”

            “What spells?” Callaina asked. “I don’t do Conjuration and my main School is Alteration.”

            “Hmm… Transmute, Chain Lightning, Flame Cloak, Calm, Fear, Fury, Muffle and Heal Other.” Tonilia tilted her head. “Take it from me, every Thief should have Calm and Muffle in their skillset.”

            “But I know the Muffle enchantment and I only need a petty soul for that,” Callaina pointed out. “I already know Transmute, so I’ll take Calm, Fear and Heal Other.”

            “Fair enough. You’ve got about one-eighty in trade left over or I can give you twenty-nine septims,” Tonilia said as she handed over the tomes.

            “Hold the credit for me,” Callaina said. “I need proper robes or at least something that hasn’t been scavenged from a bloody necromancer’s coven.”

            “Sure,” Tonilia said easily.

            Callaina took herself to the side and began to peruse the books, reading each spell nine times until it was imprinted in her memory. If she could turn away an enemy’s wrath or send them running in fear, it was a victory. She’d killed too often over the past week for her liking.

            Brynjolf joined her after she closed the last book, a bottle of wine in his hand. “Good reading?” he asked.

            “Useful. If I’d had Calm at Helgen, I could have stopped the fighting in the Keep and led everyone in an orderly evacuation,” she replied with a sigh. “Even with a dragon tearing the place apart, the Stormcloaks and the Legion were fighting.”

            “No one’s ever accused the lowlanders of common sense,” he said dryly. He poured her some wine. “You should have a drink to celebrate your first successful job, lass.”

            She picked up the dented pewter goblet. “I’m not comfortable with framing people and ruining their businesses, Brynjolf.”

            “We won’t be doing that on our next job,” he replied, pouring the rest of the wine into his own cup. “Mercer wants us to shake the identity of Goldenglow’s buyer out of Gulum-Ei. He’s the slimiest lizard you’ll ever meet but he’s in a good place in the East Empire Trade Company. He’ll owe us big time.”

            “Why does Mercer want the Goldenglow buyer?” Callaina asked in some surprise. “More work for Maven?”

            “No. The same person who purchased the estate funded Sabjorn. Someone’s hitting us – or Maven – where it hurts.” Brynjolf sipped from his cup. “Depending on who they are, we might have ourselves another customer. Trade wars mean a lot of sabotage and that means a lot of gold.”

            “What if they’re attacking the Guild?” Callaina said carefully.

            “Then we find out why. I’ve been hearing rumours of an Altmer group called the Summerset Shadows trying to gain a foothold in Eastmarch. Got to give them ten points for balls in doing it in Ulfric’s backyard.”

            Callaina sipped from her goblet. Alto wine, cheap and acidic. Still better than mead. “And then?”

            “Recruit or destroy. There’s no middle ground.” Brynjolf sighed and drank some more wine. “Will the dragons be taking precedence? I understand, mind you, but I need to know when I can count on you.”

            “I won’t be running after the dragons or the Dragonborn,” she promised. “I’ll be picking through Esbern’s brain, the Ysmir Collective at Winterhold and any other book collection I can get my hands on for knowledge about them though. I never took oath as a Blade… but I saw what Alduin did at Helgen. I know what awaits the heroic dead in Sovngarde. I can’t stand by and do nothing in the face of annihilation, Brynjolf.”

            “I understand, lass. The Bards College has a decent library and it’s in Solitude.” He smiled a little. “No reason why we can’t multitask.”

…

“Look, Gulum-Ei. Whatever you were paid, it wouldn’t be worth having your intestines frozen inch by inch over the course of an afternoon. I’m a quiet caster. That means I can stand here, do it, and no one will notice a thing. Given most of the folk around here are Nords, they won’t give a shit even if they did. So talk and we can all get on with more important business.”

            Gulum-Ei swallowed. “I’m not scared of some two-septim hedge witch Brynjolf scrounged up from the hinterlands of the _hurk-_ “

            Callaina clenched her fist slowly until the lizard-man’s eyes bulged. Brynjolf idly wondered if she _was_ freezing his intestines but cleared his throat gently. “Now, now, lass. Gulum-Ei is a favoured associate of the Thieves Guild. Let him talk. I’m sure he just needs his memory jogged.”

            The sorceress unclenched her fist and Gulum-Ei grabbed his throat, hacking and hawing for a full minute. “Look, I don’t know much, I swear! It was arranged through proxies. You know how it works in our line of work, Brynjolf.”

            “Whatever you know is helpful,” Brynjolf reminded the East Empire Trade Company factor. “Someone’s trying to run Maven out of business. They went after Goldenglow and funded Honningbrew. We just want our share of the loot.”

            “Not that Maven going out of business would be a tragedy,” Callaina muttered.

            “I… have evidence. But I don’t have it on me,” Gulum-Ei said, eyes flicking around the taproom. “Let me get it-“

            “We go with you,” Brynjolf said firmly.

            “It’s in the East Empire Trade Company warehouse at the docks,” Gulum-Ei said quietly. “I can’t bring unauthorised personnel in there.”

            “Fine. Go and get it. We’ll meet you at the docks.”

            Gulum-Ei vanished and Callaina snorted. “He’s not going to give us this evidence.”

            “Of course not, lass.” Brynjolf grinned. “That’s why we’ll be breaking into the warehouse ourselves.”

            The guards at the docks were happy to drink the bottles of Black-Briar mead delivered by a handsome woman in black robes. Within five minutes they were all snoring and Callaina dumped the bottles’ contents over them. “They won’t have much credibility smelling of alcohol,” she told Brynjolf. “That sleeping draught will hold them until dawn.”

            She unlocked the warehouse door and they snuck inside. Even at this time of night guards in fine steel armour patrolled the aisles. Brynjolf and Callaina crawled along the top of the various shelves, following Gulum-Ei as he scurried through the back way towards a little gate. Interesting; the warehouse had a back door.

            “Could you distract the guards, lass,” he breathed in her ear. “Delvin wants me to get a map of the Company’s shipping routes.”

            She rolled her eyes but nodded, using her magic to throw a wine bottle into the water. The splash had all the guards converging on the docks, laughing at each other when they realised what it was.

            Brynjolf drank a viscous potion and slid into the water, remaining just below the surface as he swam to the other side. There was an office overlooking the warehouse and if the map was anywhere, it was there. He waited underwater until the guards resumed normal patrols, then climbed out of the water – thanking Callaina for her skill at alchemy – and drank an Invisibility potion. It was a simple thing to climb up to the office and through the window, ducking under the table as he shimmered into view once again.

            Two minutes later, map and gold in pocket, he was invisible once more and sneaking past oblivious guards to drop into the water.

            He emerged from the water using the boat as cover but a guard was half-turning. A twitch of darker shadow in the corner and the guard’s head drooped in a half-doze. Brynjolf quickly rejoined Callaina, wiping sweat from his brow at the near escape.

            They followed the path Gulum-Ei took and opened the door, entering a complex of caverns under the warehouse. Callaina gestured and cast the spell she called ‘Detect Life’, wrinkling her nose with distaste. “Bandits,” she hissed.

            “Unauthorised bandits,” he corrected with a grin. “Fair game.”

            She gave him a disgusted glance. “I can tolerate burglars and pickpockets and conmen, but you’re telling me there’s authorised bandits?”

            “Aye. They know to keep their targets small and unimportant. No one cares about some fat Cyrod getting his throat cut, but they draw the line at pillaging villages or government officials,” Brynjolf said mildly. “Let Thrynn explain it to you some time.”

            She shook her head in disgust and crept down the corridor.

            In the end, they only had to kill three bandits because Callaina snuffed the torches along the way. Two guards and the leader had to die. Brynjolf casually looted the chief of his very fine armour and weapon as the sorceress advanced on a very terrified Gulum-Ei. “Where. Is. The. Evidence?” she asked in an icy tone.

            He thrust a piece of parchment at her. “It’s the deed to Goldenglow Estate! Take it as a gesture of goodwill.”

            Callaina tucked it into her belt-pouch. “Who bought the estate?”

            “It was…” Gulum-Ei shuddered. “A Dunmer with the most unnatural eyes I’ve ever seen. Purple like nightshade.”

            “A purple-eyed Dunmer?” Callaina asked in disbelief.

            Brynjolf felt ice run down his spine. “He’s telling the truth. By the gods, it’s Karliah.”

            Gulum-Ei actually pissed himself. “Oh gods, she’s going to kill me just like she did Gallus.”

            “No, she won’t,” Callaina said as she pulled a scroll from her sleeve. “Because you’re going to tell her, if she arrives, that a sorceress paralysed you and took the deed, which will be no lie.”

            She read the scroll and Gulum-Ei fell over, stiff as a board.

            It wasn’t until they were outside the cave, loaded with as much of the bandits’ loot as they could carry, that Callaina glanced at Brynjolf. “Who’s Karliah?”

            “A former member of the Guild who betrayed and murdered our former Guildmaster Gallus,” he explained. “She seduced and killed him, Damn near murdered Mercer too.”

            “Are you sure she didn’t beat Mercer to the punch?” she asked. “He’s as bent as a Bravil septim.”

            She reached into her pouch and gave Brynjolf the deed. “I know I owe the Guild my life but I don’t know how much more I can take right now. I’m going to the College. If you need anything, I’ll be there.”

            “Lass-“

            “ _Don’t._ I’ve killed more people in the past week and a half than I had in my entire life. That’s not counting the estate I burned, the business I ruined and the rest of it.” She shook her head, tears in her eyes. “Just because I’m the daughter and granddaughter of traitors doesn’t mean I’m cut out for the Guild, Brynjolf. I’m sorry. I hope you decide you’re better than the lot of them and leave. Let Karliah and Mercer betray each other.”

            “Lass.” He held out his hand to her. “We need you. And you need us.”

            “Do you and do I? No, I don’t think so.” She turned away. “Goodbye.”

            He watched his lucky charm walk away and couldn’t find a word to bring her back.


	5. Of the Shadows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

Callaina jumped off the boat at the rickety dock located under the bridge, icy water soaking her to the knees, and tossed an uncut garnet to the ferryman as a tip. Winterhold was the northernmost town in Skyrim, clinging to existence from a precipice since the Great Collapse about eighty years ago, and the College was the only thing of note. It had repeatedly defied the authority of Synod and College of Whispers alike, citing political neutrality and a dedication to sorcery that transcended national boundaries. She didn’t expect much in the way of respect or advancement but it would be good to return to her true avocation.

            It was a cold slow slog up the winding path to Winterhold, her black homespun robes thin as silk-paper in the relentless wind. Callaina wondered if the College charged an enrolment fee like the Synod; as a war orphan, her fee had been waived by Imperial decree when her real talent for magic became apparent. Sometimes she wondered if it was politics or a lack of coin that slowed her advancement through the Synod. Maybe both, for in Cyrodiil they were as close as a thirty years’ married couple.

            Winterhold was a single street lined with thatched wooden cottages while the College lay across the precipice reached only by a spindly bridge that was guarded by a female Altmer. Tawny hair and amber eyes softened the jaundiced yellow of her skin, her embroidered robes of thick wool and fur better suited to this Kynareth-forsaken place than Callaina’s homespun. “Cross the bridge at your peril!” she warned as Callaina approached. “For the way is dangerous!”

            It was so melodramatic that Callaina burst out laughing. “The last time I heard something like that was when the Synod made the Apprentices sit through a godsawful morality play about the dangers of the College of Whispers,” she said, wiping her eyes. “Are you going to glow golden and banish a papier-mache Daedra while you’re at it?”

            “It wasn’t _my_ idea,” the womer said tartly. “But apparently an ice spike to the rump is ‘undiplomatic’, to quote the Arch-Mage. Mirabelle thought this would be more tactful.”

            “Mine told me ‘lightning is not an appropriate response to unwanted attentions’,” Callaina said with a grin.

            “I’m guessing you’re Synod?” the womer asked. “If you’re looking for Paratus and his people, they’ve already gone on to Mzulft.”

            Callaina grimaced. “Technically, I was transferred there from the Bruma chapterhouse. A couple idiot Kreathling guards and a dragon at Helgen put paid to that. I don’t even know where Mzulft is, so I figured enrolling myself at the College might convince the Legion I’m not a bloody Stormcloak.”

            “You survived a dragon attack? Is that where the…” She trailed off, manicured fingers pressed to lips, as her amber eyes flickered across Callaina’s burn-scarred face.

            “Yes. I survived Helgen but I’ve also helped kill a dragon in Whiterun Hold. Unless it’s black, spiky and red-eyed, it can die to lightning, fire, ice or even plain steel.” Callaina folded her arms. “The Dragonborn can kill them permanently, otherwise your best bet is to hack it apart and scatter the pieces.”

            The gate guard pursed her lips. “I’m Faralda, Destruction Master of the College. I usually stand watch during the day to make sure only those with real business can enter. What’s your specialty, if I may ask?”

            “My specialties are alchemy and enchanting, but my primary School is Alteration, and I have a smattering of Novice and Apprentice-level spells in the others barring Conjuration, for obvious reasons.” Callaina reached into her pocket and drew out a chunk of iron ore, wrapping her fingers around it. Blue-green light swirled for a moment and she opened her hand to reveal silver ore; when she closed and opened her fingers again, it was purest gold.

            “Impressive,” Faralda said sincerely. “Now, it’s traditional that no matter what rank you held before coming here, every mage is enrolled as an Apprentice. How far and fast you advance depends on your own diligence, willingness to learn and native talent. I think you’ll be recognised as a Journeyman in less than a month with a display like that.”

            “That was the rank I held in the Synod,” Callaina admitted as she tucked the gold ore away. “My advancement was stymied by politics; I’m Aurelia Callaina and my grandfather led the Bruma Rebellion.”

            “Oh. We, ah, heard something about that. One of our previous faculty was a Blade who survived the purge.”

            “Esbern,” Callaina said quietly. “My earliest teaching was under him.”

            “Well, you’ll definitely be competent then! His protégé Farengar became the court wizard of Whiterun Hold.” Faralda sighed and turned for the bridge. “Then the Thalmor ‘adviser’ Ancano arrived and Esbern left in fear of his life. Do you know what happened to him?”  
            “Somewhat. But you’re better off not knowing. The Thalmor would love to murder every Blade they can get their hands on.” The wind was even more punishing on the bridge and Callaina took every step carefully. Her boots weren’t the best either.

            “I lost family to them, so I’ll take your word for it.”

            Faralda lit Magelight beacons as they walked across the bridge, stopping just before the gates. “Go find Mirabelle Ervine, the Master Wizard, and tell her you’re here to become an Apprentice. She’ll give you robes and a quick tour before sending you off to Tolfdir to be assessed.”

            “Thanks.” Callaina could hardly believe it had been so easy to gain entrance.

            Faralda smiled thinly. “We have three Apprentices already, all of them quite cocky and certain they’re the next Shalidor. Meeting someone who survived a dragon attack might impress upon them the need for defensive spells.”

            “That bad, is it?” Callaina shook her head. “Stoneflesh and Lesser Ward kept me alive in the firestorm, then my knowledge of alchemy kept me alive until I got to Riften.”

            “Tolfdir will _love_ you.” Faralda made shooing motions. “Go and find Mirabelle. The sooner she enrols you, the sooner your fellow Apprentices learn the necessity of caution and defence.”

            Callaina nodded gratefully and headed into the courtyard. Perhaps she had some hope at the College after all.

…

“I think the problem was that Mercer threw her into the deep end from the beginning,” Delvin opined as he poured another cup of wine for Brynjolf. “Sometimes, making a Thief is like boiling a potato – in you go, hot water, no problem. Other times, it’s like boiling a mudcrab – you slowly warm them up, get them comfortable in the shadows, and take it slow. Callaina still maintains a lot of illusions about law, order and the general decency of humanity.”

            “I think it was the killing that did it for her,” Brynjolf agreed unhappily. “I’m not happy with the trail of corpses we’ve been leaving, Delvin. Or how Maven didn’t see fit to warn us about that damn alchemist. Or how Mercer’s unconcerned by the reappearance of Karliah after twenty-five years.”

            “I knew she’d come back. Unfinished business.” Delvin picked up his own cup of wine. “This curse of ours started around then. Makes you wonder which god we pissed off.”

            Brynjolf drained half his cup in one swallow. “Callaina said Mercer was as bent as a Bravil septim.”

            Delvin’s mouth tightened. “Careful, Bryn… I ain’t saying she’s wrong but the walls have ears.”

            He didn’t understand why he was so hurt by Callaina’s leaving. Members of the Guild came and went all the time. It shouldn’t sting so much that she’d returned to her original occupation. But things had been looking up with her around and they worked so well as a team…

            “Are we ready to move on the Summerset Shadows?” he asked suddenly.

            “Aye. Torsten Cruel-Sea reached out to us. Niranye’s apparently been selling trinkets that belonged to his murdered daughter.” Delvin grimaced. “Disgusting business, that.”

            “Aye. You don’t sell the loot in the same Hold. Any idiot knows that.” Brynjolf drained the rest of his wine. “I’ll take the job myself. Might head up to Winterhold afterwards and see if Callaina’s cooled down a bit.”

            “You’ve taken this personal, haven’t you?” Delvin asked quietly.

            “Of course I have. I understand she wasn’t happy about killing or framing people. We should have put her on the Day shift, not bloody well thrown her into the Night work!” Brynjolf lowered his voice as Galathil glanced in their direction. “Things were going well, Delvin. We should have taken it slow with her. I saw Helgen, old man. The rock there was _melted_. And she survived that with nothing more than her wits, her magic and a few bloody poultices.”

            He glanced away from the sympathy in Delvin’s eyes. “I hid in a bloody haystack while she took on another dragon. Oh aye, she had Irileth and the guards and that Redguard kid turned out to be Dragonborn, but…”

            Brynjolf swallowed thickly. “She told me that I’m better than the Guild and that I should leave and let Karliah and Mercer betray each other. And then she walked away… I didn’t have the words to bring her back.”

            He scrubbed at his eyes. “We’ve fallen so hard and far from what we were under Gallus, Delvin. Sometimes, I think he’d be disgusted with what we’ve become.”

            The Night Master sighed. “You know… I sometimes think Mercer embroidered the truth around Gallus’ death. Karliah loved Gallus. She was dedicated to being a Thief in the way a priest is dedicated to the gods, like it was a holy act every time she stole.”

            “I remember that,” Brynjolf said softly. “She used to say ‘Shadows guide you’.”

            “Yeah. Maybe she believed in luck and the shadows. Maybe Gallus said or did something wrong and she decided to kill him. They and Mercer used to run around a lot together back in the day.” Delvin sighed again. “I don’t know. But while you’re on the Windhelm job and trying to talk our lucky charm back into the fold, I might send Niruin up to Snow Veil Sanctum. If anyone can read a cold trail, it’s him.”

            “Do you really think Callaina will come back?” Gods, he sounded like a lovesick puppy.

            “She will. The shadows are in her, just like they were in Karliah and Gallus and Mercer, just like they are in you.” Delvin bit his lip. “The old stories say that Nocturnal’s the patron of thieves and witches. Maybe we’ve been trying to make one of the other with her.”

            Brynjolf’s father was a Reachman and he’d spent the first twelve years of his life learning from his grandmother, the Hag who served the King in the Reach. He remembered old stories about agents of Nocturnal who kept the Guild stable and whole. Nightbirds? Nightjars? Nightingales? He wasn’t sure.

            “Maybe it’s Nocturnal who’s cursed us,” he breathed. “My gran was a Hag who served Her. A hard goddess, She is, one who will take away Her blessings if they’re being taken for granted.”

            Delvin blanched. “We were getting soft and comfortable under Gallus. Ye gods, Bryn, if you’re right…”

            “Karliah might have been doing what she thought was a holy act,” Brynjolf finished with a shudder.

            “I’m sending Niruin up there. If we’ve pissed off Nocturnal, we need to work at getting back in Her good books. If nothing else, we’ll be able to move into Whiterun, Windhelm and Markarth.” Delvin took a shaky breath. “You get us Windhelm and talk to Callaina. Maybe she’s a witch of Nocturnal and got pretty disgusted with us herself.”

            “She’s of the shadows but… I don’t know how to explain it.” He and Callaina fit like a hand into a glove. “She doesn’t belong to Nocturnal. Not yet.”

            “So bring her back, or at least make her understand we’re all in the shadows here,” Delvin urged quietly. “You’re right about her being lucky, Bryn. Everything was going so bloody smoothly…”

            In the shadows, someone gave a tight-lipped smile. They were close to understanding. So close…


	6. First Lessons/Summerset Shadows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. I have nothing against Onmund, but I’m replacing him with Bjarni for dramatic effect. Trigger warning for death and graphic description of violence.

 

“Ah, here are the rest of the Apprentices.”

            Mirabelle Ervine was a petite, neat-looking Breton with the crisp educated accent of a High Rock noblewoman. She’d briskly taken Callaina around the Hall of Attainment, where the Apprentices and Journeymen still lived, and then to the Hall of the Elements where the main lectures and classes were held. It appeared the College was loosely structured and reliant on self-organised study; every Synod-trained bone in Callaina’s body rebelled at the disorganisation and hands-off approach. How did anything get done around here?

            The three Apprentices were a varied lot and much to her surprise, one was a familiar face. “J’zargo,” she greeted the grey-spotted white Khajiit. “I wondered where you went after you left the Bruma chapterhouse.”

            “The Synodic politics were… tedious,” he replied. “J’zargo went to the College of Whispers but they were twice as bad. Here, J’zargo may study what he pleases whenever he pleases.”

            “Unless it’s making a scroll. You definitely need to work on those scrolls. I don’t think they were meant to explode.” That came from a bulky young man with brown-black hair whose deep baritone and rugged features bore a distinct resemblance to Ulfric Stormcloak, from what Callaina remembered of him from Helgen.

            “J’zargo did not know they would explode!” the Khajiit protested.

            “That’s why you test them on draugr before asking someone else to try them,” chided the delicate black-haired Dunmer whose girlish features bore the stamp of House Telvanni. Her crimson eyes swung in Callaina’s direction. “You missed the Synodic mages if you were looking for them. They’re at Mzulft in Eastmarch.”

            “I was meant to be transferred to them but wound up at Helgen instead,” Callaina said quietly. “Faralda led me to understand you think lightly of defensive spells. Look at my face, people, and think on how much worse it would have been if not for Stoneflesh and Lesser Ward. Dragons are real, they are here, and they have returned.”

            J’zargo’s ears flattened against his skull. “Callaina, it is just frustrating how the College treats J’zargo and the others like children.”

            “The orientation lecture isn’t about treating you like children, it is about establishing knowledge and ignorance,” Mirabelle said primly. “The sooner you’re of a competence to be trusted to study on your own, the sooner you can contribute to the faculty’s shared knowledge.”

            She nodded to the ancient Nord man standing to the side. “Master Tolfdir will teach you about magical safety now. If you don’t like your progression in the College, you’re welcome to leave.”

            “I appreciate the chance to learn without pressure or politics,” the Dunmer said firmly. “I’m sure we’ll be all Journeymen before we know it.”

            “Speak for yourself,” the Ulfric lookalike said with a grin. “I, for one, won’t be a Journeyman for a while.”

            Tolfdir stepped forward and offered his hand to Callaina. “I’m Tolfdir and you already know J’zargo. The other Apprentices are Bjarni Ulfricsson and Brelyna Maryon.”

            “Aurelia Callaina,” she replied, shaking it. “Synodic Journeyman specialising in alchemy, enchanting and Alteration, with Apprentice-level spells in every other School barring Conjuration for obvious reasons.”

            “At your age, you should be an Evoker at the very least,” Tolfdir noted, releasing her hand.

            “Politics. My grandfather was Arius Aurelius.”

            Tolfdir winced. “Oh. Yes. Esbern told us about the Bruma Rebellion.”

            “Just after the Great War, the remnant Blades and a few disaffected Cyrod Nords tried to rebel against the White-Gold Concordat,” J’zargo hissed to the confused Brelyna and Bjarni. “It ended badly and most of them were killed. Their descendants are still not trusted today.”

            “Politics mean nothing here,” Mirabelle said, her tone softening slightly. “Only your diligence and ambition.”

            The Master Wizard nodded to Tolfdir. “I’ll see you and the Apprentices at dinner. Don’t let them blow themselves up.”

            Tolfdir chuckled. “I’ll try not to. Until dinner.”

            The old man turned to face the Apprentices as Callaina fell into line. “Safety is paramount in the study of magic. Without the right wards, you are vulnerable to any amount of attacks in a duel arcane. Callaina, since you know Lesser Ward, please stand on the circle just over there so we can demonstrate.”

            J’zargo yawned, Brelyna sighed and Bjarni looked curious. Interesting that Ulfric allowed his son to train here.

            Callaina stood on the indicated circle and automatically cast Stoneflesh with her left hand before switching to Lesser Ward.

            “Interesting approach,” Tolfdir observed as he stepped back, fire gathering in his hand.

            “Wards, even greater ones, take time to charge and are draining,” Callaina said, falling back into the lecturing tone she’d used with Apprentices at the Bruma chapterhouse. “In open battle, mages are often backed by archers or melee fighters, so hardening your skin gives you that little bit more protection against spell or steel.”

            “Or you could just wear armour,” Bjarni pointed out.

            “Yes, but unless you want to have no semblance of a life for the next decade or so, you cannot learn the art of warrior and mage at the same time,” Tolfdir replied as he launched a firebolt.

            Callaina’s Lesser Ward was up in time, its glasslike surface shattering under the weight of the spell but disrupting most of it and her own innate understanding of magicka flows cancelling the rest. As Tolfdir stepped back, Callaina lowered the Ward and waited for the Stoneflesh to dissipate. It took a few minutes before her skin no longer shone like crystal.

            “The two most underestimated Schools in sorcery are Alteration and Restoration,” she said crisply. “Destruction is flashier, Conjuration allows for an inexhaustible supply of minions, and Illusion can make even the most unlikeable mage feared or respected, but it’s Alteration and Restoration that affect the very building blocks of life itself.”

            Bjarni shut his open mouth, Brelyna was nodding thoughtfully, and even J’zargo looked a little chastened. “This one had thought you assigned as alchemist because you were not very talented,” he admitted sheepishly.

            “Politics, not lack of talent, affected my advancement in the Synod,” Callaina said quietly. “So if politics means nothing here…”

            Tolfdir pursed his lips. “Callaina, do you think you can teach Bjarni how to cast Lesser Ward? He already has Levitation, Candlelight, Healing and Flames.”

            “Which is about two more spells than most Nords,” Bjarni said dryly. “Few understand the Fire-Call and Healing galdr are spells.”

            “And fewer still that the Thu’um your father uses is the oldest, most primal form of magic in existence,” Callaina said quietly. “You come from a bloodline of sorcerers on _both_ sides. Your mother’s mother came from the Reach.”

            Bjarni’s smile was thin. “We only bring that up when Grandpa Dengeir’s not around. He hates magic.”

            Callaina nodded to the circle Tolfdir just exited. He was obviously focusing on the Apprentices with some solid training behind them. “Bring your hand up and imagine you’re turning your magicka into a glass shield before you…”

            It appeared she had a sorcerous brother. Things would be… interesting… if it got out they were related.

…

“I can assure you the only dead we rob are the draugr,” Brynjolf told Torsten Cruel-Sea with a sigh. “No one needs to be haunted.”

            “Precisely,” the Thane said, crossing his arms. “Niranye’s always been a little dodgy, but this is beyond the pale.”

            “I’ll reserve judgement. It’s as likely she could be forced to sell the Summerset Shadows’ goods as she is complicit in Fjotli’s murder.” Brynjolf smiled toothily at Torsten. “The Shadows, however, have violated our few laws. No mercy for them.”

            Torsten’s fist clenched. “Good.”

            When confronted, Niranye was only too happy to spill the beans, including some grim news about a murderer stalking the streets of Windhelm who butchered his victims in a way consistent with necromancy. So long as it was Nords, though, the mer of Eastmarch couldn’t care less. Brynjolf would warn Sapphire and Callaina to stay away until the murderer was buried though.

            The Summerset Shadows were holed up in a cave system northwest of Windhelm. Brynjolf cursed his lack of Callaina and stocked up on sneaking potions, Muffle scrolls and even an Invisibility potion or three. Altmer Thieves were generally more skilled because of their longer lives, and he was shit with ranged weapons aside from throwing knives or needles. Just in case, he packed some poisons too.

            The two guards huddled around the fire were readily taken care of and Brynjolf dragged their corpses under the tents to confuse any passer-by. Inside, the cave broke into two passages, and he managed to sneak up to one drunk guard and cut her throat. But the other three proved to be more difficult, even with a poisoned dagger, and Brynjolf had to drink a healing potion before going further into the concealed fortress.

            His poisoned throwing spike took out the guard watching over empty cells and it appeared everyone else was asleep. Brynjolf pursed his lips thoughtfully before pouring his magicka-draining and sickness poisons into the pot of pease pottage cooking in the ashes of a Hearthfire. He slunk back into the shadows to see what would happen, applying the rest of his poisons to various daggers in the meantime.

            The poisoned pottage did its work. As the last Altmer twitched and fell over, the last of five, Brynjolf suddenly vomited at her blackened face as bloodshot eyes stared accusingly at him. Gallus would be disgusted with what they’d become. No wonder Nocturnal turned Her gaze away. But what was done was done.

            He set fire to the banners, looted the place, and returned to Windhelm. Niranye bought everything he’d taken, the blacksmith got the rest, and Torsten gave a generous reward for avenging Fjotli’s desecration. Brynjolf cut through the cemetery and past the knot of people gathered around the butchered corpse of some poor woman, picking the pockets of the guard and well-dressed merchant absently, before coming back into the marketplace. He’d catch the carriage to Winterhold instead of a boat. Gods, but he hated the sea.

            It wasn’t until he was on the trundling wagon that he could examine his haul from Windhelm. An amulet of ebony and jade embossed with a skull was the best piece, shining with enchantment. Creepy, to say the least.

            Brynjolf leaned back against the carriage with a smile. He had the perfect excuse to see Callaina.


	7. Under Saarthal/The Necromancer's Amulet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for corpse desecration. Callaina is biracial (if you haven’t figured it out) and gets read as either Redguard or Nord depending on where the person is from. I’m also shaking up certain things in the Thieves and Mages questlines because my characters are highly competent people (moderate level characters) who can put information together.

 

“I suppose guttural laughter and random bouts of Dragonish are out of the question?”

            Somewhere, somehow, Ulfric Stormcloak and Sigdrifa Stormsword had managed to breed themselves a son with a roguish sense of humour, taste for Dunmer liquors (and womer if his flirting with Brelyna was anything to go by) and talent for sorcery that was belied by his preference for heavy armour. They were traipsing to Saarthal, the original Atmoran settlement just outside of Winterhold, and Bjarni was already making jokes about pranking Tolfdir. Callaina tugged her bearskin cloak tighter around herself, grateful for the long tunic, mantle and breeches that served as mage robes at the College. She’d already enchanted the fur-lined boots with Muffle under the critical eye of Sergius Terrianus, an Enchanter known even in Cyrodiil. Three days after her enrolment in the College, she’d swapped the blue apprentice robes for the tawny robes of a Journeyman, enchanted with magicka regeneration and spell-reducing costs for the Alteration School, after proving her competency to Arch-Mage Savos Aren, Mirabelle Ervine and Master Tolfdir. J’zargo sulked until Faralda pointed out he was better than Callaina at Destruction spells. He’d always fancied the flashy over the subtle.

            “It’d take more than that to frighten me,” Brelyna said dryly. “I’m from Morrowind. I’m used to old dead weird things.”

            “I bet they’ve got nothing on draugr. You know most draugr are at the level of a complex zombie? They follow patrol routes, remember the Nine Blocks and Blows of Ysgramor, and can even work as a team.” Bjarni hopped from purple disk to purple disk over the snow, showing off his Levitation spell. “Some can use frost magic, summon frost Atronachs and the most powerful of the king-draugr can even Shout. They don’t quite have the independent thought process of a lich, but they’re not too far from it.”

            _Wonderful,_ Callaina thought sourly. “Can they be affected by Restoration magic?” she asked.

            “Aye. Turn Undead works on them.” Bjarni cast her a sidelong glance. “Are you really a Blade?”

            “My father and grandfather were. I’m just more worried about the dragons.” _And Brynjolf,_ her conscience whispered. She had just dumped him and run in a fit of piqued conscience.

            “You know, me and Enthir have a bet going,” Bjarni continued. “He says you’re a Nord, I say you’re a Redguard.”

            “You better pay up,” Callaina told him. “I’m a Nord from County Bruma with a Redguard father and Imperial grandfather.”

            Bjarni used a string of guttural words not meant for a human throat and most definitely _not_ meant to be arranged into a biologically improbable sex act for Enthir to perform with three kinds of cacti. Callaina didn’t even know you could say that in Dragonish. She didn’t think anyone would ever think to say it in Dragonish.

            Thankfully, they reached the scaffolding and walkway that led into the ruins, and they waited just outside a mage-locked door for Tolfdir to arrive. Which he did in style, arriving in hawk form and transforming with a flurry of snow and silver-blue light. Shape-shifting was an act Callaina had never desired to learn or perform. But Tolfdir was about two hundred and something years old, his mastery of Alteration and Restoration extending his life. Callaina practiced similar magics herself. Most mages, if properly trained, did.

            “We’ve only scratched the surface of Saarthal,” the old mage said. “Today, we’re looking for examples of the enchanting technique known as wonder-smithing. Atmorani didn’t have soul gems, so they used a form of sorcery that imbued inorganic material with similar effects.”

            “It’s still in use today,” Bjarni told him. “Eorlund Grey-Mane is a wonder-smith.”

            “So he is. But the Grey-Manes don’t share their techniques with anyone outside their family or the Companions of Jorrvaskr. Therefore, we will be tracking examples in the outer rooms of Saarthal. Bjarni, you will focus on weapons and stonework as you’re familiar with the Palace of the Kings. Brelyna, J’zargo, you two will focus on smaller items. Callaina, you’ll be searching for trinkets and other tiny items. If any of you find anything, give it to Arniel Gane if it’s portable or call for me if it isn’t. Understood?” Tolfdir fixed each of them with a gimlet gaze.

            Everyone nodded assent and he unlocked the door to allow them inside.

            Callaina located Arniel soon enough and then activated a variant of the Detect spell that could be used to find metals, worked or unworked. She discovered three silver rings, each one incised with crude runes and enchanted with moderate effects, and delivered them to the senior mage. But it was the ivory amulet fastened to a wall of baked clay that drew her attention. Callaina tucked it from the seal and a grate slammed shut. Running her hands over the clay, she felt the enchantment in it, and sensed its connection to the amulet. Donning the amulet, she pushed with her Telekinesis just as Tolfdir came running up, cracking the ancient ceramic.

            “Well, well, we didn’t notice this here,” Tolfdir said approvingly. “Arniel?”

            “What?” asked the other mage sourly.

            “Watch over the children. Callaina and I are going to explore this passageway.”

            “Fine.”

            “He’s tetchy because he’ll never rise above Journeyman at the College,” Tolfdir explained as they headed down the corridor. “If he was a little more productive, he’d be an Evoker by now.”

            They reached a small antechamber with three coffins and Callaina called Sparks to her hand as the air became washed with blue. Tolfdir froze in mid-step and out of nothingness came a lean, well-bred Altmer clad in maroon, white and golden robes.

            “Psijic,” Callaina said, banishing the spell. Even the least of the legendary monks could annihilate her with a finger.

            “Witch,” the Altmer said in reply.

            “Witch?” Callaina asked with narrowed eyes.

            “My apologies. It’s the standard title for anyone touched by Daedric influences, even one as relatively benign as Nocturnal,” the monk said apologetically. “You’ve just unleashed something that is… dangerous. You weren’t to know, so judgement hasn’t been passed, but you will be judged on future actions.”

            _Just because I was with the bloody Guild for a bit doesn’t mean I’m a bloody worshipper of Nocturnal!_ Callaina thought furiously. “Care to tell me some more?”

            “I can’t. Not because I don’t want to, but because the future is in flux.” The Psijic smiled wryly. “The Dragonborn is playing havoc with the timelines as he converges upon the World-Eater.”

            “The dragons are the physical manifestation of temporal invincibility,” Callaina agreed with a sigh.

            “You remember more than you realise. You will be needed in Riften sooner than you might think, both for the sake of your Brynjolf and the one you call Esbern. If one is slain by Mercer Frey and the other lost to the Thalmor, your own future is dire.” The Psijic echoed her sigh. “Go and find what’s been unearthed… and prevent it from being misused. We will talk again soon.”

            He vanished and so did the blue tint to the world as Tolfdir finished his step. “What just happened?” he asked in shock.

            Callaina took a deep breath and told him.

…

Winterhold was still the same old frozen pesthole. Brynjolf took a room at the Frozen Hearth as a bundle of mages, including Callaina, came in from the cold. The tawny robes she wore really suited her, bringing out the bronze of her skin and the gold of her eyes, and he smiled inwardly. Burn scars or not, she was a truly attractive woman.

            Callaina saw him immediately and after a word to Bjarni Ulfricsson, who was probably the least obnoxious Stormcloak in Skyrim, she made her way over to his table. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said. “I… received a warning today that you need to hear.”

            He smiled. “Oh? I am here on legitimate business, lass. But I’ll hear anything you have to say.”

            “Officially, the College can’t traffic in stolen goods. Unofficially, Enthir’s the mer to talk to if you need to offload anything questionable,” she told him with a sigh. “I… haven’t quite left the Guild. But I’m truly better here.”

            Brynjolf gestured to a seat. “Join me, lass. I got a feeling what I lifted in Windhelm might be up your alley. Or the College’s.”

            Callaina sat down and arranged her robes primly. “The Thalmor are looking for Esbern, Brynjolf. He holds all the accumulated knowledge of the dragons that the Blades ever held. If they get him, we’re all in trouble.”

            “Bastards,” Brynjolf sighed. “Was that the warning you wanted to give me?”

            “Partly. The rest of it is that Mercer Frey’s going to try and kill you soon. The Psijic who warned me about… what we found at Saarthal today… explicitly said so.” Callaina’s gaze was sincere, her entire posture honest. “Be careful.”

            “I always am,” he assured her. Why would Mercer try to kill him? Callaina believed the message so he’d trust her and make arrangements. To distract her from grim thoughts, he pulled out the amulet he’d stolen in Windhelm. “Found this in Ulfric’s city, lass.”

            Callaina blanched. “When? Where? How?”

            “I pickpocketed it in a cemetery from some merchant who was gawking at a murdered woman. There’s been a whole slew of dead women, apparently butchered and-“

            “Necromancy,” she said in disgust. “The College up here allows it more than I like, but that’s foul even by the College of Whispers’ standards. That amulet in your hand is the Necromancer’s Amulet, made by Mannimarco himself.”

            Brynjolf didn’t know who Mannimarco was but necromancy was never a good thing. “My contact said necromancy was afoot,” he admitted. “She’s from Alinor so she’d know.”

            Callaina took a deep shaky breath. “I can’t offer you a fair trade for it but Savos Aren can, if you want to come over to the College. He has a bounty for artefacts like that, and short of taking it to the Synod, the College is the best place for it.”

            He sighed and got to his feet. “Come on, before I get warm and comfortable.”

            “Have fun with your boyfriend!” Bjarni yelled from his table.

            Outside, it was snowing lightly. They walked down to the bridge entrance, where an Altmer woman stood. “Faralda, this is Brynjolf, an acquaintance from Riften. Bryn, can you show Faralda what you stole from some merchant in Windhelm?”

            He flashed the Necromancer’s Amulet and the Altmer used some bad little words unfit for one of her stature. “Take him to Savos immediately,” she ordered. “He’ll want to know the why and how and where.”

            They walked across the bridge and Brynjolf wondered why it wasn’t so windy above the chasm. “Dampening spell,” Callaina explained. “Most of the faculty are keyed to it and since you’re with me, you’re included. Otherwise, the wind’s a good way to keep idiots or witch hunters out of our hair.”

            The courtyard was balmy after all that snow and wind. Callaina led him to a double door, Inside was a great hall, but she led him to another door and up a spiral staircase to a round tower room full of every luxury one could imagine and a few more besides. A lean Dunmer was at the desk, standing up on their entrance. “Callaina,” he greeted. “I doubt you’ve brought a Thief from Riften here to rob me so blatantly.”

            “I don’t steal from mages,” Brynjolf said with a smile. “I hate curses.”

            Savos smiled thinly. “I suppose you do. What brings you two here?”

            “This.” Brynjolf dropped the Necromancer’s Amulet on the desk in front of Savos. “Callaina tells me it’s a wicked-bad thing. I stole it from some merchant in Windhelm who was gawking at a body in the cemetery.”

            “There’s apparently a necromancer murdering women in Windhelm,” Callaina said quietly. “I can’t give Bryn the bounty on this, but I thought you could.”

            “Gladly.” Savos pulled out several gems from his desk. “Bryn, do you know what this merchant looked like? I’m going to have to send a team to apprehend the necromancer.”

            “Hmm…” Brynjolf pursed his lips. “I think he was Cyrod. Well-dressed, middle-aged, probably pretty prosperous. I was in a hurry, aye?”

            “Cyrod merchants in Windhelm won’t be hard to find,” Savos observed, offering the gems. They were diamonds, rubies and sapphires, all flawlessly cut and faceted. “Callaina, I’m sending you and Bjarni. You’re the most competent mage out of those I can safely dispatch to Windhelm and Bjarni’s the son of the Jarl. I’ll message Wuunferth to make it clear he’s to assist you in any way.”

            Brynjolf took the gems and pocketed them as Callaina nodded. “Yes, Arch-Mage. Can I take Bjarni with me to Fellglow Keep after that?”

            “No, send him back here. His knowledge of magery is woeful, though he has a gift for it.” Savos smiled thinly once more. “I don’t want Ulfric to think I sent his son to die at necromancers’ hands out of some grudge against the Nords.”

            “I’ll give you a hand,” Brynjolf promised. He scratched his bearded chin. “You know, Aren, we’ve got an opportunity here.”

            “Oh?” Savos asked.

            “Aye, lad. Think on it. We of the Guild acquire many magical artefacts, much like that damned amulet, and some of them are hard to sell anywhere. If your College was willing to pay a fair price for them, we could solve two problems at once.”

            “Talk to Enthir,” Savos said quietly. “I agree with you, but Mirabelle’s very… upright about such things.”

            “Fine by me.” Brynjolf smiled. “Callaina’s a good gofer, if she’s willing.”

            “Talk to Enthir,” Savos said firmly. “Plausible deniability and all.”

            Callaina sighed and saluted the Arch-Mage before they left his room. It wasn’t until they were in the great hall that she spoke. “Enthir implied he used to deal with the Guild when Gallus was Guildmaster,” she said. “I get the feeling they were personal friends.”

            “That would be like Gallus,” Brynjolf confirmed with a sigh. “You think I should talk to him?”

            “Yes.” Callaina hugged herself. The shadows caressed her, blending in with her long hair. “Brynjolf, do you become a servant of Nocturnal when you join the Guild? The Psijic I spoke to told me I was touched by her. I… found a book in the library. _Nightingales: Fact or Fiction?_ ”

            “The shadows are in you, lass,” he told her gently. “As for the rest of it… I don’t know. Me and Delvin are wondering if Nocturnal’s pissed with us. It would explain our rotten luck until you came along. My gran back in the Reach is a Hag who serves Her. She’s a hard goddess who’ll take back the blessings She gives if we become complacent.”

            “I’m not a witch,” Callaina said grimly. “I’m a good Kynareth-fearing mage.”

            “If anyone called you a witch in the Reach, it would be a great compliment, because you’re god-touched,” Brynjolf told her. “Nocturnal doesn’t give a damn if you worship other gods, only so long as you’re there when She needs you.”

            “I’m not from the Reach… though my grandmother was,” Callaina said. “Look, are the Nightingales real or not?”

            “I’ve only ever heard rumours,” Brynjolf admitted. “What did this book tell you?”

            “That Nocturnal has three mortal agents called the Nightingales who reportedly work out of the Thieves’ Guild,” Callaina replied. “There’s a blackened stone outside Riften, carved with a bird on a circle. They apparently wear armour of forged midnight. More than that isn’t known.”

            Karliah, Mercer and Gallus had run together back in the day, as Delvin told him. Three agents. An angry Nocturnal. Had the Nightingales angered Her somehow?

            “We’ll worry about this necromancer and this Fellglow Keep and Esbern for now,” Brynjolf told her. “You might be onto something involving Nocturnal. Just… keep an open mind, lass. The shadows aren’t as bad as some people make them out to be.”


	8. Blood and Ice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of child abandonment and neglect.

 

It was a long cold boat ride. Brynjolf spent most of his time puking over the side and Bjarni snored like gravel being rolled in a barrel. Callaina huddled under her bearskin blanket and wondered what god she’d annoyed to be put in this position.

            At the Windhelm docks, they paid the ferryman and entered the city from the Sea Gate. “Has anyone ever told you just how ugly Windhelm is?” Brynjolf asked Bjarni. “Inside _and_ out.”

            The blocky granite and basalt city was built for sieges, not for beauty, and its winding streets were valleys in iron-spiked walls. The cobblestones were loose or missing, snow clogged up most of the streets, and the inhabitants – be they dour-faced Dunmer or bulky pale Eastmarcher – wore muddied, muted clothing that bore the signs of mending and patching. “Is this the poor quarter?” Callaina asked.

            “It’s the Grey Quarter. And I know. My father and too many other Nords like to pretend it doesn’t exist,” Bjarni said sourly. “The Dunmer do their best but…”

            “They kick you out of the College already?” one of the Dunmer, a rough-voiced male, asked dryly.

            “Not yet, Ambarys. I’ve been sent to deal with that murderer. I know you don’t care because no womer’s dead, but he’s going to run out of Nords sooner than later,” Bjarni replied with a sigh. “How are things?”

            “Rolff’s going to wind up in the harbour with rocks tied to his feet if he doesn’t stop insulting us,” Ambarys said grimly. “The Argonians will even help us.”

            “You hate him more than each other. That’s… impressive,” Bjarni observed. “I’m guessing you’ve been talking to Scouts and Shahvee.”

            Ambarys sighed. “I dream of going to Morrowind. Or at least Solstheim. But I’ve got kin here and too many ties.”

            “Too many people focus on past hatreds instead of a future they could forge together,” Bjarni said quietly. “The Talos I honour brought people together, not tore them apart.”

            “Your father might be beloved of the Nords, Bjarni, but he’s hated by nearly everyone else,” Ambarys said sombrely. “If we and the Argonians packed up and left… Windhelm would be crippled.”

            “I know.” Bjarni sighed. “Some Stormcloaks understand but others… don’t.”

            “Talos was a murderous cunt who united what was left of Tamriel after drowning its fields in blood,” Brynjolf said bluntly. “Ulfric’s walking in his god’s genocidal footsteps, down to the massacring of the Reach folk at the start of his career.”

            Ambarys winced. “I wouldn’t have been _that_ blunt… but I’m not a Reacher either.”

            Callaina looked between everyone. “It’s getting dark. We should talk to Wuunferth before hunting for this necromancer.”

            Bjarni nodded quickly, happy to change the subject. “I can get you somewhere to stay.”

            “We’ll take the inn,” Callaina and Brynjolf said in unison.

            Bjarni grinned weakly and she ignored it.

            The Palace of the Kings was as ugly as the rest of Windhelm and Wuunferth located deeply within its warren of corridors. The court wizard sighed on seeing Bjarni. “Got kicked out already?”

            “Why does everyone think I’ll fail at the College?” Bjarni asked.

            “Because you’re a feckless little shit,” Wuunferth said bluntly.

            “We’re here about the murders,” Callaina said before Bjarni could reply. “My colleague here acquired the Necromancer’s Amulet from a middle-aged Cyrod of prosperous appearance in the cemetery a few days ago. Savos Aren sent us to deal with it.”

            “The Necromancer’s… By the Nine.” Wuunferth shook his shaggy grey head. “My specialty was necromancy at the College. That’s why they call me the Unliving. Now I know what’s going on, I can give you a time and date for the next killing.”

            He turned towards a paper-strewn table, Bjarni by his side. Callaina studiously ignored Brynjolf swiping the Stone of Barenziah as Wuunferth went through various astrological charts, muttering.

            “It’ll be tomorrow night in the marketplace. Two women have already died-“

            “Three. Fjotli Cruel-Sea was the second victim. Someone just stole her jewellery before the guard arrived,” Brynjolf interrupted. “It wasn’t the Guild, before you ask. We have rules about that sort of thing.”

            “Head, heart, hands and heels,” Callaina said quietly. “He’s creating a lich.”

            “He just needs the head,” Wuunferth said grimly. “Synod?”

            “Originally. It’s a little more complicated now.”

            The court wizard smiled thinly. “You’ve got the Cyrod look to you. I wager you’ve been noticed.”

            “Bait,” Callaina said calmly.

            “Indeed.” Wuunferth nodded at her. “I hope you’ve learned better defensive spells since you got those burns.”

            Callaina’s mouth tightened. “Lesser Ward and Stoneflesh got me through Helgen, old man. These came from dragon fire.”

            “You survived Helgen? Well, this murderer of ours might be small potatoes but…” Wuunferth knuckled his bearded chin thoughtfully. “I have an Ebonflesh tome.”

            “I’m not quite at Evoker yet,” Callaina said. “I’d rather rely on the spells I can cast quickly and cheaply.”

            “Fair enough,” Wuunferth said with a shrug. “It’s your hide.”

            “I have an idea,” Bjarni suggested. “I’ve been training in Illusion and I can cast a basic glamour. If I send forth the seeming of Callaina…”

            “He’ll attack unwisely,” Brynjolf said with a smile. “I don’t like the idea of you being bait, lass.”

            “I don’t like the idea of you being a Thief, but we don’t always get what we want, do we?” she countered tartly. “So, tomorrow night?”

            “Tomorrow night in the marketplace,” Wuunferth confirmed. “I’ll alert the guard.”

            “And I’ll get some sleep,” Callaina said calmly. “Good night, everyone.”

…

It was almost sunset of the next day and Callaina left the inn at a swift pace to catch the alchemist before he closed up for the night. Brynjolf followed at a more casual place, sticking to the abundant shadows left by Windhelm’s looming walls, and a cowled figure walked just behind on silent tread. It was moderately crowded, the people more diverse than expected for a stronghold of Nord racial pride, but the paunchy Cyrod in orange linen stood out as he followed Callaina to the marketplace. Nocturnal’s shadowy teats, the man was an amateur. But he’d still managed to murder three women.

            The stalls were closed for the night and the blacksmith hammered one last weapon, the ring of steel drawing a yawning guard’s attention. Callaina just reached the alchemist’s door when the Cyrod called out to her, some incomprehensible Colovian greeting, and she turned. He approached, smiling, and drove an iron knife into her gut.

            Except the illusion flaked and cracked, revealing a bulky young Nord in steel chainmail, and the Cyrod backed away hurriedly. He might have gotten away if it wasn’t for the quietly cast patch of ice behind him. The real Callaina flung off her cowled cloak and called lightning from the sky, thunder breaking in the clear twilight gloom, to crawl blue-green across his skin. He managed to raise a Ward with one hand, retaliating with a frost spell. “I hope it freezes your blood, you Redguard bitch!”

            Callaina’s grin was wolfish. “I’m a Nord, you daft git.”

            He got to his feet, still maintaining the Ward, and cast a Sparks spell that Callaina disdainfully blocked with her own Ward. More lightning arced from the sky and shattered the Butcher’s Ward. He screamed as the shock stole his magicka (just as frost wearied a man’s stamina, Callaina once explained) and didn’t stop until Bjarni cleaved his head in with a steel axe.

            “Calixto Corrium,” he said after rifling through the man’s belongings. “Damn. I knew he was strange but not like this.”

            “Corrium? That family’s been involved with the College of Whispers for years,” Callaina observed. “So I’m not surprised one is a necromancer.”

            Bjarni rose to his feet after wiping his axe on Corrium’s tunic. “This is going to play merry hell with inheritance and all. He owned a rather nice house in the Stone Quarter.”

            Two guards and a leaner version of Bjarni entered the marketplace. “Why is there a dead body and reports of lightning coming from here?” he asked.

            “Because, Egil, we just killed the Butcher,” Bjarni said with an exaggerated sigh. “Didn’t Wuunferth tell you and Father anything?”

            “We’ve been a little preoccupied at the moment,” Egil said dryly.

            “Too preoccupied to deal with a necromancer?” Callaina asked coolly. “Three Nord women, two of them from good families, were butchered for their body parts and you didn’t think to investigate? If it wasn’t for Bjarni and his Illusions, I may very well have been the fourth despite being prepared. That knife had magicka-draining enchantments on it.”

            “Wait, you’re a Nord?” Egil blurted.

            “I am,” Callaina told him coolly. “It may surprise you, but there’s more Nords than just those in the Old Holds or even born in Skyrim.”

            “But you look like a Redguard!”

            “To be precise, son of Sigdrifa, my father was a Redguard with a Colovian father whose own sire was a Bruma Nord and my mother of the Kreathlings,” Callaina said crisply. “I know Ulfric is blind to the obvious even in his own Hold capital, but Bjarni told me you were a little smarter.”

            Brynjolf hid a grin as Egil reddened. “You’re just another Imperial-loving milkdrinker!”

            “Only because my mother saw fit to abandon me in Cyrodiil after the Great War,” Callaina replied icily as turquoise light flared around her features, the ball orbiting her head. “I have no love for Legion or Stormcloak… but I think it’s about damn time the Stormsword and I had words.”

            “You won’t get within ten paces of her,” Egil said quietly. “There is no trust for Imperial puppets here.”

            “Shit,” Bjarni said softly. “Egil… _Look past the fucking nose.”_

“There’s a resemblance,” Ulfric’s other son said offhandedly. “Uncle Balgeir reportedly left numerous bastards.”

            “I thought you were the smart one,” Callaina said flatly. “I’m going to the Palace now and talking to our mutual birth-giver. I certainly can’t dignify her with the title of mother.”

            “Let her through,” Bjarni ordered the guards, his voice suddenly harsh. “Or die where you stand.”

            The guards quickly parted and allowed Callaina and Bjarni through. Egil was following them with a mulish expression and Brynjolf stuck to the shadows, racing ahead.

            It was dinnertime at the Palace of the Kings and the hall full of guests. Callaina slammed the doors open with Telekinesis, drawing everyone’s attention, and shook back her hood to reveal the long black hair, the rounded square features and high cheekbones, and the turquoise eyes of the Kreathling Jarls.

            “I’m pleased to announce that between my efforts and that of Bjarni Ulfricsson, the Butcher of Windhelm – Calixto Corrium, a name of some ill repute in Cyrodiil – is dead,” she announced clearly.

            “Was there a need for such melodrama, Journeyman?” Wuunferth asked from his place at the high table as murmuring sprung up at the lower ones.

            “Yes.” Callaina smiled and it was colder than the heart of an ice wraith. “Because the Stormsword and I are going to have a little chat. I must say, Mother, the years have been kind to you. Kinder than the Imperial workhouse and Synod were to me.”

            “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” Egil breathed behind him.

            Wuunferth’s hands glowed for a moment, as did the Stormsword and Callaina, and then he bowed his head to Ulfric. “It’s true.”

            “I know,” Ulfric replied.

            The Jarl rose to his feet. “You were at Helgen.”

            “Yes. And the Legion can go to Oblivion. But I must say, judging by the squalor of Windhelm, you Stormcloaks aren’t much better,” Callaina said flatly. “I nearly died tonight, Ulfric. I nearly died because you and my mother couldn’t be arsed to hunt down a fucking necromancer who murdered Friga Shatter-Shield, Fjotli Cruel-Sea and Susanna the Wicked. If it wasn’t for a Thief and a bit of luck, Mannimarco’s own Necromancer Amulet would still be in Windhelm. If it hadn’t been for such blatant disregard of a ruler’s duty and my own near-death, I would have kept silent and to myself. But I figured if we’re all due to go down the maw of the World-Eater, at least I told my mother what I thought of her.”

            “I had every reason to believe you were dead,” Sigdrifa finally said, rising to her feet.

            “Bullshit,” Callaina said pleasantly. “Wuunferth’s gift for scrying is known at the College. You could have confirmed whether I was alive or dead.”

            “Why are you doing this?” Egil asked, bewildered and hurt.

            “Because I think the people of Windhelm should know what kind of Nord my mother is,” Callaina said bitterly. “Oathbreaker. Kin-abandoner. Liar. She isn’t worth a drop of Ysgramor’s piss.”

            “You may claim to hate the Legion, but you do their work for them,” Ulfric said grimly. “Leave and never return to Windhelm while I’m Jarl.”

            Callaina’s smile was thin. “If you’re as competent at war as you are a Jarl, that won’t be for very long. It was your murder of Torygg that brought Alduin upon us all, Ulfric. Think on _that_.”

            Brynjolf quietly slipped out and waited for her to leave. Within moments, she was outside, two of Ulfric’s guards in pursuit. But Callaina had concealed herself in the shadows of the heavy door lintels and watched them go forth.

            It wasn’t until they were on the docks, hiring a boat, that Brynjolf turned around and asked, “What the hell were you thinking, lass?”

            “Bjarni didn’t even know I existed,” she said bitterly. “I could have understood Mother believing I was dead… But she acted like I never existed.”

            “Well, Skyrim knows you exist now,” he said dryly. “The Stormcloaks will hunt you for this, you know. Bjarni and Egil hate you.”

            “That’s their problem, not mine.” She sighed as the boat pulled away, the Argonian fisherman sensing the urgent need to leave. “It wasn’t the smartest thing to do, I know. But I nearly died and I realised that I never got to be angry about what happened to me. I just wanted her to know I exist and that I’m angry. Is that so bad?”

            “Maybe not bad,” Brynjolf said with a sigh as he wrapped an arm about her. “But bloody hindering awkward. You better hope the Legion wins soon or you’ll be driven from Winterhold.”

            “Tullius is leading the Legions. He’s an arse but he’s a damned good general. If the Dragonborn joins the Stormcloaks… Things will be interesting. But I don’t see a Redguard helping either side.”

            “We’ll see,” Brynjolf sighed. “We’ll see.”


	9. Hitting the Books/Battle for Whiterun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. I head-canon that Dragonborn have subtle changes to their physical appearances, like eyes that reflect light, to reflect their status as predators.

 

Callaina returned to Winterhold on a blustery morning and reported to Savos at the College. Brynjolf elected to remain behind at the inn with Enthir in order to set up new channels for the Guild. After the events in Windhelm, she was relieved to be alone. She shouldn’t have lost her temper like that, though she couldn’t deny it’d been cathartic.

            The Arch-Mage pinched his nose with a sigh. “Wuunferth alerted me to the incident, but I appreciate your honesty. Exile from Eastmarch is hardly the worst of fates to befall you… and there are ways to conceal you if necessary. Be wary in Winterhold proper, though, as Jarl Korir is dependent on food and supplies from Windhelm. Ulfric may very well choose to lean on him in that regards.”

            “Charming,” Callaina said dryly. “He’s nothing but a regular thug, isn’t he?”

            “Demagogues come and go,” Savos sighed. “I’m more worried about Bjarni. That boy has a genuine gift for Illusion magic and you may have alienated him in the most brutal fashion possible.”

            “I know,” Callaina agreed. “But I nearly _died_ , Aren. We could all be _dead_ in a matter of months if the Dragonborn doesn’t pick up the pace with Alduin. That’s not counting what the Psijics are predicting. What was I supposed to do? Grin and bear it for the rest of my life?”

            “With your talent for Restoration and Alteration, you will live a good two hundred years,” Savos said calmly. “Not quite the lifespan of a mer, but close enough. You will outlive most of those who wronged you. That should be enough for any competent mage.”

            “It’s easy to say that when you never leave the College,” Callaina said grimly. “I reached the end of my tether. It wasn’t wise of me, but it felt good to tell _someone_ how I felt. I’ll endure any consequences but damned if I’ll apologise to Ulfric and Sigdrifa.”

            “That’s your choice,” Savos said gravely. “However, you need to be on the road tomorrow. Some of those books the coven took included references to Saarthal and the Psijic Order. We need them back quickly.”

            “Fine.” Callaina nodded to the Arch-Mage. “By your leave?”

            “Go.” He was already turning to his bookcase.

            She’d just entered the Hall of the Elements when Ancano, the Thalmor ‘emissary’, approached. “Aurelia Callaina,” he greeted with a veneer of affability. “I’m given to understand you helped find the Eye of Magnus.”

            “Is that what they’re calling it?” Callaina asked.

            “A little grandiose, perhaps, but it does suit the artefact.” Ancano smiled thinly. “I’m given to understand you’re also researching dragons?”

            Callaina gave him a smile that really wasn’t a smile. “Don’t intervene. Tell Elenwen to back off. If Alduin devours the world, he’ll just regurgitate it into a new form.”

            “You know this for certain?” the Altmer asked worriedly.

            “I do. The Akaviri believed that the souls bound to the world would return as dragons – immortal, practically invulnerable… and bound to the ebb and flow of time. I’m given to understand that to the Thalmor, that would be a fate worse than death?”

            “Auri-El have mercy on us all,” Ancano breathed fervently. “I can’t speak for the Ambassador, but my people won’t interfere with yours, providing you grant us the same courtesy.”

            “I don’t give a shit about the old feuds. But if Elenwen decides to meddle, all bets are off.”

            “That is… fair.” Ancano shuddered. “We’re working to free _all_ souls from the flesh, Callaina. The Thalmor, the true Thalmor, aren’t your enemies.”

            “That’s for powers greater than me and thee to decide.” She nodded curtly at the Thalmor. “Good day, Ancano.”

            She stepped outside and there was Bjarni. “I half-expected to find you in a shallow grave,” her younger brother said bluntly.

            “Better people have tried and failed,” Callaina said dryly. “I’m… sorry about Windhelm. You and Egil deserved to learn things in a more, ah, tactful manner.”

            “I wish you’d told me the day we met. I could have broken the news to Egil gently.” Bjarni sighed. “Are you allied with the Empire?”

            “I’m not happy with the Legion but if Windhelm is indicative of Stormcloak rulership, I find the Empire to be the lesser of two evils,” Callaina told him honestly. “Your father’s going to get a lot of good people killed, Bjarni, including you and Egil. You’re both adults. You won’t be spared when Tullius comes. Hell, he sent me to the block at Helgen because of Mother.”

            “That’s to be decided,” Bjarni said with another sigh. “Callaina… Stay away from Whiterun for the next few days. Balgruuf’s made his choice and Father’s going to try to take the city.”

            Callaina was unsurprised to discover Balgruuf aligned himself with the Empire. “I won’t be going anywhere near the city. Just to Fellglow Keep up near the Pale.”

            “I’d still wait a few days. I left as the troops were being mustered.” Bjarni shook his head. “I think you stung Father into action. There were notables from all over the Old Holds in the hall that night.”

            “So you’re blaming me for Ulfric deciding to try and conquer Whiterun?” she asked in astonishment.

            “No. It was coming. But Father’s moving before he’s quite ready. The Dragonborn is a Thane of Whiterun. Only Talos knows if he’ll raise his voice in defence of the city.”

            “Then if your father wants to sow the storm, he’ll reap the whirlwind,” Callaina said softly. “If I were you, I’d decide if Talos is a god worth dying for.”

            She pushed past him and walked towards the bridge. Damn Ulfric and damn her mother.

…

_“STRUN BAH!”_

Even inside Fellglow Keep, the sound of the Dragonborn’s Voice thundered. The very stone walls rattled with the force of it and Callaina paused in collecting the stolen books. Orthorn just pissed his robes. Pity the lass didn’t just sell the lad to the Caller and they could have avoided a nasty fight. But Callaina was ethical like that.

            They waited for the thunder to stop before Callaina shoved the last books into a satchel. Brynjolf had to say he was quite pleased with his share of the loot. Another Stone of Barenziah, a decent amount of gold, several gemstones of fine quality and all the enchanted items Callaina didn’t want or need. Orthorn got his life and freedom. That was more than enough for the milkdrinker.

            They emerged from the Keep to a clear day. “So, uh, what Shout did he use, lass?” Brynjolf asked Callaina.

            “Something to do with storms,” she replied absently. “Even the Ysmir Collective has fuck all on the dragon’s tongue.”

            “Can I go now?” Orthorn asked plaintively.

            “Please do. Don’t get mixed up with necromancers.”

            The apprentice bolted for the pass between the Pale and Whiterun. Good riddance.

            “What now?” Brynjolf asked.

            “We try to skirt the mess in Whiterun, I suppose. Riverwood has a general trader and blacksmith.”

            The ‘mess’, as Callaina called it, was well and truly over by the time they arrived. Legionnaires and soldiers in Whiterun’s wheat-gold tabards were executing wounded Stormcloaks and taking the rest prisoner; judging by the trampled grass, a lot more ran away. The fields and cottages looked like they’d been battered by hail, rain and thunder despite the sunny skies above.

            “I guess the Dragonborn defended his city,” Callaina said with a sigh. “Kynareth have mercy on us all.”

            Brynjolf swallowed back bile. He’d seen similar scenes of carnage back in his youth. It didn’t matter that they were Stormcloaks.

            “You sympathise with the rebels?” asked a nearby Legionnaire.

            “No, Auxiliary.” That was Hadvar, the Quaestor chewed out on their last trip to Whiterun. “Callaina survived Helgen. I imagine she’s remembering it.”

            “Compassion and understanding, Hadvar?” Callaina asked with a raised eyebrow.

            “It’s hard for anyone to… see this. Cirroc Dragonborn saved many lives, but…” Hadvar sighed. “It’s necessary. But I don’t relish killing my own countrymen.”

            “Aye. I’ve no love for the Stormcloaks… but aye,” Brynjolf agreed.

            Callaina took a deep breath. “Is Whiterun accessible? I’ve been researching dragons at the College and I’d like to speak to the Dragonborn, if he’s willing.”

            Hadvar gestured to the gate. “He’s up there with Jarl Balgruuf. Good to see you’ve been doing something useful.”

            Balgruuf was congratulating his troops and the Legion, a lean Redguard youth in scaled armour and a woman in Legate’s armour to one side, his huscarl Irileth to the other. “Know that Sovngarde revels in your victories!” he announced. “We have broken the storm here… Nay! We have turned the storm back on Ulfric and his rebel hordes! Long live the Empire! Long live Whiterun!”

            Everyone cheered but the Dragonborn remained quiet. His eyes reflected light oddly, almost like a predator’s.

            “He’s Dragonborn alright,” Callaina murmured. “Esbern once said ‘You’ll know them by their eyes’.”

            They scattered after that and Cirroc said something to Balgruuf. The Jarl sighed and shook his head. “It’ll take a while, lad,” he said to the olive-bronze, beak-nosed young man with the close-cropped black hair. “Ulfric’s claws are fixed deep in the Old Holds.”

            “I just hope the Legion isn’t expecting me to win their wars for them,” Cirroc replied in a low deep voice. “That’s not the way of the Ra Gada. I only intervened because Whiterun was attacked.”

            “We’re well aware of that,” said the female Legate.

            “Rikke,” Callaina said. “This should be, ah, interesting.”

            “I appreciate it. The Empire has an opportunity to show its strength to the world. If you are fast enough, strong enough and clever enough, you will be worthy to hold what’s left of your Empire. If not, your time is obviously done and other powers will rise to fill the void.”

            “Is that the Redguard talking or the dragon?” Rikke asked.

            “Both.” Cirroc looked past the Legate to Callaina and Brynjolf as they climbed onto the walkway. “Hammerfell is neutral and the victory of either side in Skyrim has its pros and its cons for us.”

            “If Windhelm’s anything to go by, the Empire is the lesser of two evils,” Callaina said crisply.

            “Aurelia Callaina,” Rikke said with a slight smile. “Why am I not surprised to see you here?”

            “Because we just cleared out a nest of necromancers to the northeast for the College and I thought I should introduce myself to the Dragonborn,” Callaina said quietly. “I’m not happy with the Legion, Legate Rikke. Tullius _pissed_ on the laws involving Imperial citizens at Helgen. My papers were legitimate but you chose to trust the word of two Kreathling idiots over mine.”  
            “I remember you at Helgen,” Cirroc said calmly. “Your fate was decided long before you crossed the border.”

            “Oh?” Callaina said, meeting his eyes unflinchingly. Brynjolf honestly found those fire-pupiled obsidian orbs intimidating.

            “Someone told Jarl Siddgeir that his cousin Sigdrifa had a firstborn whose claim to Falkreath might be better than his,” Cirroc replied. “Said someone arranged for your transfer to the Mzulft team, set you up to be captured in Falkreath, and dispatched to Helgen. Tullius’ carnificina was but a useful way of disposing you.”

            “That makes a lot of sense,” Rikke agreed. “Callaina… The General couldn’t take chances, not on what the guard told him. It was wrong but… you’ve seen what we’re up again.”

            “Who?” Callaina asked the Dragonborn.

            “I don’t know. But believe me, it will be dealt with.” He smiled and in that moment, Brynjolf saw the resemblance. “To think we almost shared the same fate, sister. My full name is Cirroc ibn Rustem al-Elinhir. In Hammerfell, you’d be Callaina bint Rustem al-Bruma, and our father rules the City of Mages. When this is over, you should come home with me.”

            Callaina’s face went blank. And then, without a sound, her eyes rolled up in her head and she fainted.


	10. A Cornered Rat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. I have particular head-canons for the Dragonborn having powers outside Shouts. Because Cirroc’s essentially a warrior-priest, he’s able to access some of them through discipline and meditation.

 

Callaina woke up in a neat fur-covered bed in a small tidy little house. When she sat up, a chair creaked, and a black-haired young woman with sculpted features offered a cup of water. “Sapphire?” she asked confusedly.

            “Lydia,” the stranger corrected. Callaina rubbed her eyes and realised she was wearing fine steel armour. “I’m your brother’s huscarl.”

            “Sorry,” Callaina mumbled as she accepted the cup of water. “It’s been… stressful.”

            “I can imagine,” Lydia said wryly.

            She drank some water and felt a little better. “Thanks,” she said when her throat wasn’t as dry.

            “You’re welcome.” Lydia poured some more water into the cup. “Your man’s downstairs talking to Cirroc. It’s funny, but we were heading to Riften in the next day or so. The Thalmor are tracking a former Blade-“

            “Esbern.” Callaina threw off the fur coverlet and got out of bed. “Where are my robes? We need to get there before they do.”

            “Oh-kay,” Lydia said slowly. “Your robes are drying downstairs-“

            Callaina left the bed-loft and went downstairs in nothing but a breast-band and loincloth. Cirroc spat out whatever he’d been drinking as she reached for the tawny linen hanging from the rafters. “Brynjolf, what’s the fastest route from here to Riften?” she asked as she tugged on the damp tunic. “The Thalmor are after Esbern and we need to get moving.”

            “Probably through Falkreath,” he replied grimly. “Are they…?”

            “They’ll have no respect for the Guild. Assuming that Mercer doesn’t just sell Esbern for a few septims.”

            Brynjolf said something sharply in a lilting language that had Cirroc bury his face in his hands. “What about those books?”

            “Courier,” Callaina said crisply. “Whatever Ancano’s up to won’t happen in the next few days and the College can handle it. The Psijics specifically warned me of the danger to Esbern.”

            She tugged on the breeches and swung the mantle around her shoulders. “Where are my boots?”

            “By the door,” Lydia supplied helpfully. “Cirroc…?”

            “The young Redguard said as he raised his face. “Horses?”

            “No. You’ll make yourselves big fat targets on the route we’re taking,” Brynjolf said as he began to buckle on his sword and dagger. “It’s a Thieves’ path, lad.”

            “At this rate, I’d ride a dragon to Riften,” Cirroc said dryly.

            Callaina pulled on her boots. “My things?”

            “Hook on the right,” Lydia supplied. “Should we get supplies before we go?”

            “Aye. Sell any excess weight. Coin’s lighter than what I’ve got in my pack anyway.” Brynjolf smiled thinly. “None of it comes from this Hold.”

            Lydia’s eyebrow rose and Cirroc shook his head. “Just go and sell it. And tell Belethor if he tries to cheat you again, I’ll demonstrate the thirty-ninth cut of Frandar Hunding on his favourite piece of anatomy.”

            “That would be his tongue,” the huscarl said dryly.

            She accepted the things Brynjolf handed her from his and Callaina’s packs, leaving with another shake of her head. Cirroc began to stuff bread, cheese and salted fish into a sack. “If Ulfric hadn’t attacked Whiterun, we’d be there already,” the Dragonborn explained. “I’d half-considered joining the Stormcloaks after Helgen, but…”

            “Bjarni’s not so bad. He warned me about the attack. Egil’s still struggling with how I revealed myself to Mother in Windhelm,” Callaina said as she settled her pack on her shoulders. “It’s worth my life to go to Windhelm because I told Ulfric exactly what I thought of him as a Jarl and warlord and told the guests what the Stormsword was as a Nord.”

            “’Not worth a drop of Ysgramor’s piss’,” Brynjolf quoted with a grin.

            “Damn. That explains Ulfric’s hasty attack.” Cirroc shook his head with a wry smile. “You don’t mince words, do you?”

            “I spent eight years of my life in an Imperial workhouse being reminded constantly of the Emperor’s generosity in sparing my life after Grandfather’s rebellion,” Callaina said softly. “For the first couple years, Uncle Irkand didn’t know I was alive, and after that he figured it was better for me to stay there because his vocation as a Knight of Arkay took precedence. I was only sent to the Synod as an apprentice because my talent for sorcery was too undeniable. I was still kept to alchemy and enchanting, spent thirteen years as an Apprentice, and now it turns out my big break that could have landed me Evoker status turned out to be a set up. So yeah, I’m not really in a mood to mince words.”

            Cirroc nodded. “You’ll get no argument from me. Da… Well, he didn’t know you were alive until a few years ago, and given the tensions between Hammerfell and the Empire, we weren’t sure what would happen if we reached out. That was Grandda’s decision – he’s the Lord of Dragonstar and a fairly big player in Redguard politics. Forebear faction, if you know our ways.”

            Callaina smiled crookedly, nodding at the elaborate gold-hilted scimitar hung over the door. “Yeah, the sword kinda gave it away.”

            “That will help you, if you choose to come to Elinhir.” Cirroc fished a key from his pouch. “Here’s a key to Breezehome. You’re welcome to stay here anytime… Both of you.”

            “I’ll put a shadowmark on the lintel,” Brynjolf promised. “That’ll let the Guild know not to rob the place.”

            “Is it the one for ‘friend’ or ‘very dangerous’?” Cirroc asked.

            Brynjolf simply smiled.

            Lydia returned with a generous bag of coin. “I cleaned out Belethor’s cashbox and his potions. Arcadia’s shop isn’t open yet because they’re still tending wounded up at the Temple.”

            “Good job, Lydia.” Cirroc slung the sack across his shoulders and then went to a weapons rack. He hesitated between the two elaborate swords there and finally chose a silver-hilted one with a knuckle-guard and a blade almost like a katana. “I’ve heard the Guild lives in sewers, so tight quarters?”

            “Aye,” Brynjolf confirmed. “When we get there, you’ll need to be blindfolded until we get to the Vaults, lad. Our rules and I swear by Nocturnal no harm will come to you.”

            “The nimcha it is. And if things go south… I’m an accomplished blind-fighter.” Cirroc buckled the ‘nimcha’ to his belt. “You ready to go, Lydia?”

            “As you command, my Thane.”

…

“By the tits of Lady Luck, Bryn, you know when to arrive,” Delvin said as they entered the Ragged Flagon. “Thalmor are crawling everywhere and one of them tried to question Vekel.”

            “Get everyone together. We’re playing our part in saving the world,” Brynjolf replied as Callaina removed the blindfolds on Cirroc and Lydia. “Delvin, meet Callaina’s brother Cirroc the Dragonborn and his huscarl Lydia. Folks, meet Delvin.”

            “Well, well.” Delvin nodded to Cirroc and bowed over Lydia’s hand. “I guess she is lucky.”

            “I’m not lucky,” Callaina said quietly. “Delvin, no matter what, Cirroc has to get out with Esbern. If both of them die, we’re dinner for the World-Eater.”

            Delvin’s smile was grim. “The Thalmor are in our territory, love. Riften’s about to have a glut of elven weapons and armour.”

            The Guild’s bruisers were gathered while the infiltrators went ahead, setting traps and preparing nasty surprises for the Thalmor. Mercer crossed his arms and gave Brynjolf a filthy look. “I see you deign to return.”

            “I’ve got coin to cover for my absence,” Brynjolf replied, dropping the bag on the desk. “But we need to teach the Thalmor a lesson in respecting private property.”

            “And after that, we need to talk about Nocturnal,” Callaina said quietly. “I think I know why She’s angry with the Guild.”

            Mercer went absolutely still. “What do you mean by that?”

            “The Ysmir Collective was quite informative,” Callaina told him calmly. “You, Karliah and Gallus were the Nightingales, weren’t you?”

            “Holy shit, I thought that was a myth,” Delvin breathed.

            Mercer laughed and the sound rang false. “I think that dragon cooked your brains a bit too much, Callaina.”

            Brynjolf’s eyes narrowed. “I doubt that greatly, lad. But we have a slightly more pressing problem. Believe me when I say we’ll be chatting afterwards, Frey.”

            There was nothing more than a whisper of steel and Mercer Frey’s head parted from his body, the Dragonborn wiping the blood from his sword’s edge with finger and thumb. Brynjolf – none of them – had even seen him move.

            “What the-?” Sapphire said, hand going to her dagger.

            “He betrayed you. Murdered his Guildmaster, framed the loyal Nightingale Karliah and plotted the murder of my sister’s man and her, if he could get away with it. When he lied, the story was laid out like a shadow play of Stros M’kai.” The Dragonborn sheathed his sword. “I apologise for acting hastily but…”

            Niruin popped his head into the room. “They’ve found Esbern.”

            Callaina swallowed. “Let’s go. And if there’s any repercussions from this, I’ll take them. Cirroc’s my brother.”

            “You may not be Redguard, but you have Yokudan in you,” Cirroc said proudly.

            The Thalmor had cornered the old mage in his room, which had a door that could do the Guild vault proudly. They were trying to blast open the door with little success. It had enough chains to make Haelga jealous.

            “Amateurs,” Callaina said under her breath.

            Despite the shocking circumstances of Mercer’s murder and Cirroc’s revelations, Brynjolf grinned at the disgust in her voice. Whatever Callaina was, she was foremost a very good mage.

            She and Niruin stepped forward, still cloaked in the shadows, and lightning crackled between her fingers as the Bosmer nocked his ebony bow and drew back an arrow with a nasty barbed head. Then they moved, one of the guards collapsing with an arrow in his back, the two mages jerking straight up as lightning arced over their skin and between them. As the other Thieves emerged from the darkness, the other Thalmor put up a brief fight. It was _very_ brief.

            “Cirroc, Lydia, take Esbern,” Callaina told them after the fight was done. “Like it or not, I’ll need to answer to the Guild for Frey’s death.”

            “He was planning to kill you and Brynjolf,” Cirroc said firmly. “I stand by my choices.”

            “But the Guild has rules, lad,” Brynjolf said with a sigh. “Vex, Delvin, I’ll stand away from this.”

            The two Masters exchanged glances. “I’ll check Riftweald,” Vex said. “Vald knows me.”

            “Doesn’t he ever,” Delvin said with a smirk. “Sapphire, Niruin, Thrynn, make sure our goldskin guests are removed appropriately. Dragonborn, I’d very much appreciate it if you piss off with Esbern. It’s not much good to steal the world if Alduin’s gonna eat it.”

            “Dragonborn?” Esbern emerged from his room, having unlocked everything.

            “That’s me,” Cirroc said. “Come on. The Thalmor are hunting us both and we need to find out how to kill Alduin.”

            Callaina said something in a different language and Esbern jerked to attention, saluting reflexively. He fell in behind Cirroc and the Redguard glanced at his sister. “Callaina-“

            “Go. I’ll clean up the mess here. If Mercer did what you said, there’ll be proof.” She smiled. “Just ask me before decapitating someone next time, okay?”

            “Yeah, okay.” Cirroc turned away and Brynjolf could tell he wasn’t happy.

            When the Dragonborn was gone, she held out her hands. “I assume the Guild has a procedure?”

            “Not really,” Delvin said. “We look for evidence. As you said, if Mercer betrayed Gallus, there’ll be evidence.”

            “Oh, there is,” breathed a slumberous contralto from the shadows. “The problem is, it’s written in Falmer and I don’t know anyone who can translate it.”


	11. The Price of a Soul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

The Dunmer who stepped from the shadows as if she belonged there was small and fine-boned, her ash-grey skin, black hair and charcoal leathers relieved by the violet gleam of her huge eyes. A great ebony bow was slung across her back with a quiver of Daedric arrows and a long ebony knife hung from her hips. Everything about her spoke of shadows and rest, secrets and mystery.

            “Karliah,” Brynjolf said tightly.

            “Brynjolf,” she greeted with a sigh. “You and Delvin were getting close to the truth.”

            Callaina folded her arms. “I’m guessing you’re a Nightingale.”

            “The last of the original trinity of myself, Gallus and Mercer,” Karliah admitted. “I… wasn’t expecting Mercer to be dealt with so peremptorily. I planned to lure him and Brynjolf or Delvin to Snow Veil Sanctum so I could paralyse one and explain myself to the other.”

            “A neat trick with Goldenglow and Honningbrew,” Brynjolf said.

            “Thank you,” she replied with pardonable pride. “I wanted to make the Guild start questioning Mercer’s leadership.”

            “You did at that,” Vex said. “So you’ve got proof and it’s untranslatable, huh?”

            “Falmer’s not untranslatable,” Callaina said. “We found several examples of Atmorani runes and Falmer script at Saarthal. The Ysmir Collective already has an Akaviri-Atmorani dictionary. Give me two days and a chat with Urag, and I could provide a reasonable translation.”

            “Calcelmo also has a Falmer lexicon he’s been working on,” Karliah said quietly. “Enthir told me about it.”

            Everyone glanced in Brynjolf’s direction and he blinked. “What?”

            “You were Mercer’s second,” Vex said patiently. “Until we work out what’s going on, we need you to make the calls.”

            He rubbed his auburn temples. “Fine, fine. Vex, burgle Riftweald Manor, get what you can about Mercer’s plans. Niruin, make sure the bloody Dragonborn and his friends have left Riften. Delvin, round up everyone and secure the Ratway. Send a message to Maven. Callaina, lass, once we’ve confirmed what your brother’s said, you’re off to Winterhold with Rune to get the translation done.”

            “Enthir knows me,” Karliah began, only to receive a quelling look from Brynjolf.

            “You can fetch Calcelmo’s lexicon if you feel so strongly, lass. The Dragonborn might have meant well, but he’s bloody well made everything go to hell. Callaina’s part of the College already, so it won’t raise as many eyebrows if she and Rune go.”

            “Brynjolf…” Karliah sighed. “This wasn’t how it was meant to be.”

            “Instead of undermining Mercer, you could have prevailed on someone like Maven to gain you an audience with the other Masters,” Brynjolf said grimly. “Oh aye, we’d have been suspicious… But thanks to you, we’ve had over our seven years of bad luck, and here we were thinking it was Nocturnal being angry with us.”

            Karliah took a deep breath. “Nocturnal isn’t… angry. Mercer committed blasphemy and I can’t say more than that, not unless you’re a Nightingale, but-“

            “But this and but that,” Callaina said in disgust. “I got told by a Psijic that Nocturnal had her hand on me. I’m a good Kynareth-fearing temple-going mage-“

            “When you joined the Guild, you opened yourself to the shadows,” Karliah interrupted. “But I think you’ve always been in the shadows, haven’t you, Aurelia Callaina? You’ve always tried to evade notice, always stepped lightly. Nocturnal isn’t just luck and thievery. She is mystery and secret knowledge.”

            Callaina clenched her fists. “I’m sick and _fucking_ tired of powerful entities deciding they have the right to my soul, my ambition or what-fucking-ever it is this week! The Elder Council slowed my advance in the Synod, the Psijics have decided I’m somehow wrapped up with the Eye we found under Saarthal, and now Nocturnal wants a piece of me. I’m over hearing about prophecies and portents, Karliah. Give me – give us! – some straight fucking answers right fucking now.”

            “I can’t!” the Dunmer retorted. “I wish I could. But it isn’t just Nocturnal preferring to keep Her mysteries to Herself. Everything is… uncertain. It’s… erratic, chaotic. I don’t know how to explain it, but the Daedric Princes and the Aedra are interfering more than usual.”

            “I can answer that,” Callaina said. “Alduin World-Eater has returned and until the Dragonborn faces him down, the future – the world itself – is uncertain. That’s why he was in Riften, to rescue the last Blades loremaster from the Thalmor. They’ll probably go to Alduin’s Wall in the Reach.”

            “And he’s your brother.” It wasn’t a question.

            “Apparently so. I’m in a bloody mess because he decided to execute Mercer, who was supposedly planning to kill me and Brynjolf. I took on the repercussions because if we lose Cirroc, we’re all dead.” Callaina sighed heavily. “So I’ll be damned before I let some bloody Daedric Prince make decisions for me.”

            “Mercer would have eliminated you,” Karliah said confidently. “You are… lucky in a way that’s outside Nocturnal’s power. He couldn’t have countered that.”

            “So,” Brynjolf said, “What did Mercer do that was so bad? I’m sure Nocturnal would understand. My Granma always said She’d explain things if you were polite in asking.”

            “Mercer disrupted the link between Skyrim and Nocturnal’s realm of Ebonmere, eroding the luck and prosperity we had under Gallus,” Karliah explained with a sigh. “More than that, I truly can’t say unless you’re a Nightingale.”

            “So how does one become a Nightingale?” Brynjolf asked testily.

            “You make a bargain with Nocturnal. In life, you have endless good luck, power over shadows and ability to do as you wish so long as a certain place is defended. In death, you become a guardian and guide to Nocturnal’s worshippers, until your contract is done and you become one with the shadows.”

            Callaina had read enough Temple literature to be sceptical. “It can’t be that simple.”

            “It is, Callaina. Gallus always intended for Brynjolf to take his place in the Nightingales.” Karliah sighed.

            “So who’d be third?” Brynjolf asked.

            “I’m not sure. Delvin and Vex have their virtues, but my mother and grandfather always believed Nightingales should have a mixture of skills.” Karliah sighed again. “I suppose it depends on whether Callaina considers herself a mage with ties to the Guild or a thief with ties to the College.”

            Brynjolf shrugged. “My Granma is a Hag who serves Nocturnal, so I guess I’d be following in my family’s footsteps.”

            He glanced at Callaina. “You and I are a good team, lass, but I can’t make your choice for you.”

            Callaina looked between him and Karliah. “Do you know what you’re asking of me? You’re asking me to trade my soul for-for-“

            “Endless wealth and luck,” Delvin said cheerfully. “You could sneak into the Emperor’s bedroom and steal his golden slippers. If you won’t take the offer, I will.”

            “If you sold your soul for two septims, Nocturnal would ask for a septim back as change,” Vex said tartly.

            “That’s hurtful. Accurate, but hurtful,” Delvin said in mock injury.

            Callaina turned away from everyone. “I need some time alone. I’ll be at the Shrine of Talos if you need me.”

…

Brynjolf gave Callaina an hour before heading topside. She was, as she promised, at the Shrine of Talos. Vex was burgling Riftweald Manor for any hint of Mercer’s plans and Delvin was overseeing the Guild briefing over what happened today. First the Dragonborn, then Thalmor and now Karliah’s revelations. What a week.

            “My grandfather swore up hill and down dale we were descendants of the Septims,” she said harshly as he deliberately stepped on a twig. “Descendants of Talos Stormcrown Himself through Martin Septim and the Hero of Kvatch, my great-great-grandmother Aurelia Northstar. There were… irregularities concerning my great-grandfather Julius Martin’s birth, including the fact he had very blue eyes.”

            “So he thought he was reclaiming his rightful throne,” Brynjolf said carefully.

            Callaina snorted. “It’s known that Aurelia Northstar wasn’t the most stable of people. There’s even a persistent belief among the Cyrods that she mantled Sheogorath and became the Madgoddess. I never saw proof either way for his claim or their belief.”

            “Until your brother shows up as Dragonborn,” Brynjolf observed.

            “Contrary to common wisdom, there’s more than one Dragonborn lineage. Jarl Balgruuf’s directly descended from Wulfharth and there’s half a dozen more bloodlines scattered across Tamriel. My grandmother Farrah of the Forebears came from one, supposedly, and Julius Martin’s wife Sjofn had a mutual ancestor with Balgruuf in the Second Age.” Callaina nodded at the statue of Talos. “That’s not counting the unknown bastards sired by randy Septims or Akatosh just up and deciding to give the blessing of the dragon’s blood to someone.”

            “So the Blades were trying to breed themselves a new Dragonborn.” Brynjolf shook his head in disbelief. “I know you’re related to them, lass, but the world’s better off without them or Talos.”

            “But Talos is the axle on which the world spins,” Callaina said, turning to him. “I could get into the Shezzarine business but… I’d rather not. Succinctly, the Thalmor’s endgame is to break Talos as the embodiment of humanity, break humanity itself, and return us all to primordial existence – because they believe they’re gods trapped in mortal shells.”

            “Crazy bastards,” Brynjolf muttered. “Nocturnal’s much more sensible than that.”

            “If I take this step, my old life is lost to me,” Callaina said quietly. “I can never return to the Synod, because they forbid all forms of Daedric magic. I can’t return to Cyrodiil, because I’ll be bound to Skyrim. Kynareth Herself will forsake me.”

            “From what I’ve noticed, lass, your old life was lousy,” Brynjolf said bluntly. “Someone set you up to be executed at Helgen. As a Nightingale, you’d have the ability to hide from them… and find out who it is.”

            “I just have to trade my soul,” Callaina said with a twisted smile. “It’s probably not much of a soul but it’s all I have.”

            “You’ve got status in the College and a place in the Guild,” Brynjolf pointed out. “Just think – as a Nightingale you could find all the secret artefacts and keep them from the Thalmor.”

            “Why are you arguing so hard for me to become a Nightingale?” Callaina asked with an arched eyebrow.

            Brynjolf took a deep breath. “Because all the luck and wealth in the world won’t be much if I can’t share it with you.”


	12. Trinity Restored

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

It was dusk when they arrived at Nightingale Hall, located just past the Shadow Stone outside of Riften. Karliah looked over her shoulder at Callaina and Brynjolf as they followed her along the overgrown path. It had taken some persuasion but she eventually agreed to become a Nightingale. Whatever passed between the Day Master and the sorceress at the Shrine of Talos hadn’t been Karliah’s concern, though she feared a repeat of her history with Gallus if one desired power more than anything else.

            A touch of Karliah’s hand removed the dark stone shrouding the entrance and they walked inside. Nightingale Hall had become neglected, smelling of mildew and musty air, and Callaina wrinkled her nose in obvious distaste. They walked to the armoury, where touching the stone encased Brynjolf and Karliah in Nightingale armour literally forged from the shadows. “Callaina?” the Dunmer asked, nodding to the stone.

            “I’m not trained to move in armour and it will impede some of my defensive spells,” the sorceress replied. “If Nocturnal doesn’t understand that, the deal is off.”

            Karliah sighed inwardly. The Nightingales had never had a true mage before; Gallus and her mother had been Thieves first, mages second. But Nocturnal was a patron of witches too. “We’ll see what She says.”

            They went to the Oathtaking Room and Karliah bid the other two to stand on the appropriate glyphs. The darkness eddied and pooled in the corners as she raised her arms and called upon the Empress of Mirk and Gloom to come forth, as two souls wished to transact the Oath of the Nightingale with Her.

            “Karliah.” Nocturnal’s voice, harsh and proud, echoed from the small globe of blue-white light at the centre of the room. “It’s been a long time.”

            “I have two souls who wish to transact the Oath. Mercer Frey is dead and I have retrieved the Skeleton Key. The Trinity must be restored if the Key is to be returned and the Twilight Sepulchre defended.”

            “You tell Me something I already know,” Nocturnal said dryly. “Bryn mac Gillam mac Bothela’s presence is expected. His bloodline has long served Me.”

            “The shadows have kept my family alive,” Brynjolf said simply.

            “That they have.” Karliah sensed Nocturnal’s attention shifting to Callaina. The sorceress lifted her chin in proud defiance. “Aurelia Callaina. _You_ are a pleasant surprise.”

            “That’s the first time I’ve ever heard those words about me,” Callaina replied with a tone dry as Nocturnal’s. “What do you want from me and what can I expect in return? If I’m going to be selling my soul, I’ll be damned before I let it go for cheap.”

            Karliah nearly gasped at the woman’s impiety but Nocturnal chuckled richly. “And you doubt your place in the Guild? It’s been a long time since we had a Nightingale who was also a witch. Most choose to become true Hagravens. I will expect you to defend the Twilight Sepulchre as needed, in this life and the next, until the terms of your contract are fulfilled. Then you will become part of my shadows, a guide and guard to future Thieves and witches.”

            “That’s been explained to me,” Callaina said quietly. “But what do I get in return?”

            “Better luck than you’ve possessed in your life. You drive events forward by your existence, but it doesn’t mean that you receive any benefit from it. If you take the Oath, you will have the same luck as any other Nightingale – things will always go well for you in your efforts, so long as you work a little for it.” There was a sense of amusement in Nocturnal’s voice. “More importantly, once the Key is restored, you will gain power over shadows. For most Thieves, it’s the ability to draw from someone’s life energy, cloak themselves in shadow to be unseeable, or make an enemy fight for them. They can also see perfectly in the darkness.”

            “I can already do most of that with Illusion and Alteration,” Callaina pointed out.

            “Precisely. That’s why a witch has slightly different abilities and duties to the average Nightingale. You will gain a greater facility with Illusion spells and the ability to see in total darkness. You can still call on the power of Strife to draw your enemy’s life energy to you, but instead of Shadowcloak and Nightingale Subterfuge, you will be able to transform into a nightingale for three hours or step through shadows anywhere to return to the Twilight Sepulchre, from which you can access Nightingale Hall. Like the powers of the other Nightingales, you can only use one of these once a day.”

            “Teleportation? That could be useful, even if it’s a one-way trip,” Callaina noted. “And my duties?”

            “You will be responsible for the maintenance of the Twilight Sepulchre. It may be once it is active again, a new cult will arise, and you will have to act as a guide to them.”

            “You bet the Reach-folk will flock to the Sepulchre if they can get there,” Brynjolf said. “Madanach and his people work from the shadows.”

            Callaina was silent for a while, exchanging a single glance with Brynjolf, before she nodded. “Fine. Someone tried to get me killed at Helgen and I want to find out who it was. There isn’t a damn person I’d care to share Sovngarde with but… I could live in the shadows with Brynjolf. The Synod can go fuck itself. I’m yours.”

            “Then go touch the armoury stone and return. You must be properly garbed for the Oath,” Nocturnal ordered.

            Callaina curtsied slightly and left the Oathtaking Room. “I apologise for her impiety,” Karliah began.

            “Impiety? Karliah, my dear, Callaina has come closer to understanding Me than many Nightingales,” Nocturnal chided gently. “The contract is like a Guild job, yes, but any self-respecting Thief would haggle hard for their reward. Aspirants schooled to complacency bore me, Karliah. That was, in part, why I allowed Mercer Frey to act for as long as he did… and why I kept you alive these past twenty-five years.”

            “My plan would have worked,” Karliah argued.

            “Yes. No one counted on the Dragonborn’s interference though. If Callaina drives events forward by her existence, Time and Fate shudder in the presence of the Dragonborn. A young man, cocky and reckless, who has only just begun his tempering at the hands of powers beyond even himself. Other Princes have begun to take notice and the Aedra will find he is not their puppet.” Nocturnal sounded more amused than concerned.

            Callaina returned, clad in soft robes with a deep hood, embroidered black on black with night birds and the phases of the moon. She took her place on the platform, running an olive-bronze hand down the robes. “Silk-velvet,” she noted.

            “I’m not one to require My servants dress in sackcloth,” Nocturnal said dryly.

            Callaina shuddered. “Yes, I remember the novitiate of Kynareth I nearly took.”

            “You look good, lass,” Brynjolf said, his eyes crinkling above the mask.

            “You too.” Her smile was shy and awkward.

            Karliah turned to face her goddess. “So the Oath is transacted?”

            “The Oath is transacted.” Without further ado, the shadows wrapped around them lovingly, and Karliah nearly wept to feel the familiar cool darkness once more.

            “Do get the Skeleton Key back to the Twilight Sepulchre soon,” Nocturnal said dryly. “You will need the shadow gifts in the near future.”

            Then She vanished.

            “Well, I expecting a bit more ceremony,” Callaina said as she pushed back her hood.

            “Nocturnal cares only for results, not ritual,” Karliah told her. “So, we need to decide what to do next.”

            “Isn’t that obvious? Get the Key back to the Sepulchre.” That was Brynjolf.

            “Yes, but who? I… don’t feel worthy of carrying it.” She pulled the Skeleton Key from the pockets of her armour. “Who should go?”

            “Where’s the Sepulchre?” Callaina asked.

            “Northern Falkreath, near the Reach border. We often used to sneak down through the Kreathling forests to worship there, until Dengeir started hunting us,” Brynjolf said grimly. “He hates the Forsworn with a passion.”

            “The Forsworn aren’t precisely saints,” Callaina pointed out. “But… Cirroc implicated Siddgeir in the events at Helgen. I might as well kill two birds with one stone. I’ll take it.”

            “As you wish, lass.” Brynjolf smiled thinly. “As for me and Karliah, we’ve got a heist to run. The biggest one of them all.”

            “We’re going after the Eyes of the Falmer?” Karliah asked.

            “Of course.” His eyes crinkled. “If we’re going to steal something, we might as well go hard or go home. And I’ve got no intention of going home empty-handed.”


	13. Darkness Returns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

The trip back to Falkreath via Helgen was much different this time around. Bandits had taken up residence in the ruins, their raucous laughter and jibes echoing across the still night, and Callaina followed the edge of the half-melted wall to avoid the lingering scent of ash. After some reflection, she chose to go ahead to the Twilight Sepulchre and visit the village which gave the Hold its name afterwards. She could indulge her curiosity as to who set her up after she’d done her duty to Nocturnal.

            The woods were relatively peaceful at night and Callaina could see everything plain as day. Nocturnal’s shadow-vision granted the ability to see the world in greys, blacks and whites after dark, enabling her to avoid obstacles and roving packs of wolves. A Calm spell took care of the predators that roamed around and couldn’t be dodged. Otherwise, she made do with her natural stealth and Muffled boots.

            It was just on dawn when she reached the Twilight Sepulchre. The doors swung open at her touch and Callaina found herself in a great open room where a solitary figure in Nightingale armour waited. “Who… are… you?” he asked in an educated Nibenese accent.

            “Callaina, Nightingale-Witch of Nocturnal,” she replied. “I’m guessing you must be Gallus Desidenius.”

            “The name… feels familiar. I am the youngest and the last. The rest have lost their purpose and clarity. Be wary, Nightingale, for they won’t recognise you as friend.”

            “So I’ll dodge them whenever possible.” Callaina looked down into Gallus’ ethereal face. “Mercer Frey’s dead and Karliah’s back with the Guild. She and Brynjolf are hunting the Eyes of the Falmer.”

            “I know… those names. You have the Key?”

            “Yes.” Callaina pulled the Key from her pocket. “I’m returning it.”

            “Hurry, before I lose myself as the others may, please.”

            She laid a hand on Gallus’ half-solid form and injected a Calm spell. “Just stay here and rest. It’s okay, Gallus.”

            Beyond the room, ethereal ghosts in Nightingale armour prowled the halls, and Callaina kept to the shadows where she could and cast Calm where she couldn’t. She didn’t want to destroy these poor souls for the crime of forgetting who they were. The depth of Mercer’s true crimes became clear.

            It was the second part of the Sepulchre that was the most challenging. Every time she stepped into the light, her flesh burned, and the shadows were laden with traps. Her Telekinesis got quite a workout as she dragged old clay pots or activated tripwires and buttons to set off them off. But she made it through with some minor burns and reached the third space.

            Sentinels and traps clustered here like bees around honey once she’d snuffed the torches and opened the door. Callaina drained half of her magicka potions casting Calm and using Telekinesis to deal with the Nightingale spirits and the deadly traps. By the time she reached the final part of the Sepulchre, she was wrung dry and sweating like a sinner at Temple.

            The well loomed before her, a pit of darkness, and Callaina sensed this was symbolic of something greater. Taking a deep breath and casting Feather, she leapt into the well and hoped for the best.

            For a few heartbeats, nothing happened… and then the shadows became complete, the light burned purple, and a great flurry of night birds burst out of a lock to which Callaina fitted the Skeleton Key. The darkness deepened and the birds burst into a chorus as a portal opened, Brynjolf and Karliah stepping through in their Nightingale armour. By then, the night birds had resolved into the form of a cloaked nondescript Nord woman with long black hair and eyes shadowed by Her hood.

            “Drink from the Ebonmere,” Nocturnal decreed. “For here is where the Nightingale is born.”

            Karliah drank first from the pool of purple-black liquid and Brynjolf was second. Callaina followed suit and felt the shadows settle into her soul, stronger than blood, deeper than bone. The die was cast and her fate sealed.

            “The Trinity is restored, the Key back in its place. Already the Nightingale Sentinels are returning to the shadows and My power returned to the Sepulchre. It was interesting you avoided conflict, Callaina,” Nocturnal mused.

            “I wasn’t sure what would happen to them. I’ve always been against soul trapping black souls and…” Callaina shrugged helplessly.

            “If a Sentinel’s spirit dissolves, they return to Me,” Nocturnal said simply. “But it was a good thought. Blood and violence in the darkness is the realm of Sithis. His to Him and Mine to Me.”

            Mystery and being cryptic were obviously part of Nocturnal’s theme. “I don’t like killing unless I must. That’s what troubled me about the missions Mercer gave me and Brynjolf.”

            “Understandable.” Nocturnal turned Her gaze to Brynjolf and Karliah. “Your powers are now restored to you. Try not to lose the Key next time.”

            She faded into the shadows and Gallus stepped forward. “Karliah.”

            “Gallus.” The womer’s contralto throbbed with love and sorrow.

            “It’s time. I go now to Ebonmere to be one with the shadows.” The Nightingale reached out and touched Karliah’s cheek. “I will always be with you and when your contract is fulfilled, we will be together. Shadows hide you, Karliah.”

            “Shadows hide you, Gallus.”

            The spirit faded and Karliah wiped her cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

            “Why, lass? He’s with Nocturnal now but you’ve lost him a second time. No need to be sorry.” Brynjolf pulled down his mask to reveal his features, sighing. “We’ve got ourselves some Eyes to fetch. Callaina, have you visited Falkreath?”

            “No. I thought the Key took precedence.” Callaina lowered her hood and wiped her sweaty brow. “Is there a way out of here that doesn’t involve Nightingale Hall?”

            Karliah laughed. “Of course there is.”

            They followed a secret tunnel to the front room. Callaina sat down on the stairs, suddenly exhausted. She didn’t even know how much time had passed. Brynjolf sat down next to her and flung the cape of his armour across her shoulders. She leaned into his warmth with a grateful sigh.

            “I don’t want to confront anyone,” she said. “I just want to know why.”

            “Don’t need to justify yourself to us, lass,” Brynjolf assured her. “What are you going to do?”

            Callaina smiled weakly. “Burglarise the Jarl’s longhouse in Falkreath. If there’s anything to be found, it’ll be there.”

            “And if not?” That was Karliah.

            “I honestly don’t have a damned clue.”

…

Cirroc was minding his own business at the Dead Man’s Drink when Jarl Siddgeir, a pompous peacock who didn’t give a damn about his own people, burst into the inn and pointed a shaky finger in his direction. “Arrest that man! He robbed me!”

            “Are you accusing random strangers of being a thief?” demanded Dengeir of Stuhn, the former Jarl and father-in-law to Cirroc’s sire Rustem.

            “Someone robbed me of my jewels and personal papers!” Siddgeir retorted. “It had to be that Redguard. No one else would dare!”

            “What’s the wergild for Shouting someone arse over tit?” Cirroc asked Lydia quietly.

            “Probably the same if you cut him down. He’s a Jarl, so it’d be four hundred for assault or four thousand for disablement and murder,” she murmured. “Given you’re a Thane in Whiterun, it could be seen as an act of war.”

            “Maybe someone decided to take back the tax you’ve extorted from our people to buy your wretched silks,” Dengeir countered. “This lad just walked in about an hour ago, you daft brat.”

            “I said arrest him!” snapped Siddgeir.

            “I don’t recommend that, unless you feel like explaining to Jarl Balgruuf the Greater of Whiterun why you decided to falsely accuse his Thane,” Lydia told the pathetic wanker, standing up. “I am Lydia daughter of Istgeir and you just accused Cirroc Dragon-Born of being a thief.”

            “Not just a Thane of Whiterun, but son to the Lord of Elinhir just across the border,” Cirroc said with a toothy smile. “I mean, if you want Falkreath Hold to be squeezed like a ripe plum, go ahead. I wager your own people would deliver your head to whoever got here first.”

            “Wait, you’re that pond-scum bastard Rustem’s son?” Dengeir demanded.

            “Now, I’ll grant my father can be a bit of a shit, but pond-scum and bastard aren’t words I’d use to describe him,” Cirroc said, baring his teeth in nothing that could be a smile. “Keep on insulting my honour and I’ll have no choice but to issue a challenge.”

            “You’re Aurelii. You have no honour,” Dengeir spat.

            Things might have gone downhill from there but the local Imperial Legate, a Nord man with a handlebar moustache, walked into the tavern with a squad of Legionnaires and Nenya the Steward. “There they are,” Skulnar said grimly. “Arrest Siddgeir and Dengeir of Stuhn for treason.”

            “What?” the two Kreathling men exclaimed in unison.

            Skulnar produced a sheaf of papers sealed with the stag of Falkreath Hold. Cirroc sat back and nursed his flagon of ale, enjoying the show. “Dengeir, you’ve been supplying Ulfric Stormcloak with iron for years and allowed Stormcloak soldiers to set up a post overlooking the road from Helgen. Siddgeir, you’ve been selling information about travellers to the local bandits in return for a cut of the proceeds; that’s not counting your misuse of a Synodic seal, false imprisonment of an Imperial citizen, and the falsifying of Legion orders to have Aurelia Callaina executed at Helgen.”

            “Siddgeir’s not smart enough to do all that on his own,” Cirroc muttered to Lydia.

            “Of course not,” the huscarl agreed. “I wager your sister’s finally gotten around to dealing with these two idiots. Classic Guild tactics.”

            Cirroc decided to help his sister and throw some more fuel on the fire. “I can vouch for the bandit thing,” he told the Legate. “On my way through here the first time, Siddgeir offered me a job to wipe out some bandits at Embershard Mine because they’d stopped giving him a cut. I told him where to stick it and what do you know, I’m in a fucking cart bound for Helgen.”

            “By the… Eight,” Skulnar said, catching himself at the last minute. “He nearly got the Dragonborn killed!”

            “And my sister,” Cirroc reminded him. “Not that I knew it at the time, of course. As I understand it, that sack of crap sent my sister false orders under a Synodic seal that she thought was her ticket to advancement. We all know how that turned out, don’t we?”

            “I’m glad the wergild isn’t _my_ problem,” the Legate said fervently. “On behalf of the Legion, I apologise for what happened at Helgen. We all know what you did at Whiterun, Dragonborn.”

            “I was a Thane and the city needed protecting,” Cirroc reminded him. “Hammerfell is neutral in this matter.”

            “We know, but that storm Shout of yours saved hundreds of Legion lives.” Skulnar gestured and two Legionnaires separated to grab a protesting Siddgeir and a stunned Dengeir. “Hammerfell must surely agree that a Skyrim ruled by Ulfric Stormcloak and Sigdrifa Stormsword would be ruinous for Tamriel as a whole.”

            “That would be a dangerous thing,” Cirroc agreed carefully. “There are pros and cons for Hammerfell no matter who wins, Legate. How’s the war going? I’m on my way to the Reach and I need to know I’m not going to be used as target practice.”

            “We’re on the verge of taking Dawnstar,” the Legate admitted. “More than that is confidential.”

            “Good to know the only thing I have to worry about is Forsworn,” Cirroc said cheerfully. “The Empire has its flaws but it _is_ more stable. Just try to verify orders before trying to carry them out. If I’d been decapitated, someone else would have been Dragonborn… Like Ulfric or Sigdrifa.”

            “Akatosh forbid,” one of the Legionnaires said fervently.

            Lydia sat back down as Cirroc smiled at the Legate. “Have fun interrogating those two. Siddgeir’s ticklish and Dengeir’s scared of leeches.”

            Skulnar chuckled and gave him a salute before marching the two noblemen out, leaving Nenya behind. “Until a new Jarl is chosen, I suppose I’m in charge,” the Altmer woman sighed. “Do you know where your sister is? Technically, she has the best claim to the Stag Throne.”

            “She’s otherwise occupied at the moment, Nenya, researching dragons and that,” Cirroc told the womer truthfully. “Skyrim needs her more as a dragon expert than as a Jarl at the moment.”

            “True enough. I better start scouring the familial branches for other candidates. Siddgeir had to have gotten professional help from someone and… well, I’d watch your back,” Nenya advised.

            Cirroc smiled grimly. “You should be warning the Thalmor to be watching theirs.”

            Neither of them noticed the black-robed woman removing herself from the inn.


	14. A Sense of the Sacred

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Graphic description of death and violence.

 

They really needed to crack down on the unauthorised bandits infesting Skyrim, Brynjolf mused as he slit the throat of another sleeping bandit in the ruins of Irkngthand. It was one thing to cut some fat Cyrod merchant’s throat but another to rob beggars and burn farms for the fun of it. He’d have a word to Thrynn; the ex-bandit knew every bolthole in Skyrim. It was time the Guild got its shit together and laid down some rules for appropriate conduct.

            Karliah’s steel arrows made short work of the guards outside and the night shift inside. Once they’d looted anything remotely useful or valuable, they pressed deeper into the ruins, where the twisted Falmer lurked in the bowels of a dwarven city. Brynjolf could sympathise with the wretched creatures, because the same lowlanders who drove them underground had ruined his family’s life. It didn’t stay his hand whenever a close-quarter kill was needed, because they hated all surface life now, but he pitied them all the same. Thankfully, they were able to dodge most of them.

            They reached the statue where the legendary diamonds were set and Brynjolf gasped in awe. A mer, crowned with an ornate headdress, sat cross-legged with a book in one hand and staff in the other. As their sight faded, the Falmer had carved this, an act of devotion to their god.

            “Beautiful, aren’t they?” Karliah observed. “Those diamonds are easily the size of my head.”

            “I…” They’d achieved their goal and Brynjolf couldn’t bring himself to pry those diamonds from the statue’s sockets. Not when they caught the light and refracted it in opalescent rainbows. “It seems blasphemy.”

            Karliah cast him a sideways glance. “Blasphemy?”

            “This, lass, was the final act of faith by a dying people,” Brynjolf said quietly. “It seems wrong to take these diamonds and just pawn them to the highest bidder.”

            “Sentiment?” Karliah sounded more amused than anything else. But then, the Dunmer had no time for Auriel in any form.

            “No, lass. I’ve framed priests for any number of crimes but they were rotten to the core. This is… sacred. It feels wrong to take the Eyes.”

            Karliah made an exasperated noise. “I didn’t expect you to care what the gods thought, Brynjolf.”

            “Meeting one face to face tends to shift one’s perception.” He sighed and looked over his shoulder. “We still have a good haul of loot from this place, lass. I say we let Auriel keep His eyes.”

            “You’ve completely lost it,” Karliah said with a sigh. “ _Fine._ We’ll leave them alone. There’s a pipe just above its head, so I hope Auriel doesn’t mind Nightingales crawling all over him.”

            They emerged into the ice-clogged White River just before the waterfalls that led to the sea. There was still plenty of daylight, so they pressed south towards Whiterun, which was warmer and more hospitable than any town in the Pale. Between the old stones and the old tomb that rested in the pine-filled valley, they were stopped by a blond Stormcloak wielding a massive hammer. “Stop right there!” he ordered. “This is a secured area.”

            “We’re just passing through to Whiterun, lad,” Brynjolf assured him.

            But the rebel shook his head. “I can’t allow you to pass. Come quietly to our camp and when the mission is done, you may depart. Orders of Prince Egil.”

            “Since when was Ulfric a king?” Brynjolf asked, glancing around to see if the Stormcloak had any friends.

            “He’s the rightful High King of Skyrim by right of honourable duel,” the Stormcloak grated. “This is my final warning. Come quietly or I’ll execute you as Legion spies.”

            Brynjolf didn’t bother responding, but instead drew the shadows around himself and sensed Karliah doing the same. The Stormcloak swore and called for reinforcements but by the time his friends arrived, the two Nightingales were deep within the pine forests and heading south.

            “Korvanjund,” Karliah said, looking over her shoulder. “I’ve heard rumours the Jagged Crown is there. Ulfric must be trying to bolster his authority after his defeat at Whiterun.”

            “Here’s to hoping he doesn’t find it.”

            “Amen.”

            They nearly ran into the Legion patrol trying to sneak up the hill, led by plain-faced Hadvar and a broad-shouldered brunette in Legate’s armour. “Watch yourself, lad,” Brynjolf said cheerfully. “Egil Ulfricsson’s ahead with a few friends.”

            “What the…” Hadvar waved his men down as they went for their weapons. “How do you know this?”

            “Because some big blond brute I assume is Ralof Storm-Hammer tried to drag us back to their camp,” Karliah said with a sigh.

            “This is the Thief who was travelling with Aurelia Callaina,” Hadvar explained to the Legate.

            “Yes, I know. Brynjolf… or do you prefer Bryn mac Gillam?” the Legate responded with a keen glance. “Day Master of the Thieves’ Guild in Riften.”

            “Since we’re being official and all, do you want to introduce yourself?” Brynjolf asked dryly. He sensed no threat from either Legionnaire.

            “Legate Primus Rikke.” Her smile was thin. “Did you get an idea of how many men the Stormcloaks had?”

            “I’d say about twenty or so. Egil wouldn’t dare come this close to Whiterun with more, not after their defeat there,” Karliah replied. “But they were definitely Ulfric’s personal guard.”

            “Good. I think you should go now. I didn’t see you and you didn’t see us. Understood?”

            “Aye, lass,” Brynjolf said with a smile.

            They went on their way and in the distance, the sound of a muffled cry rang out across the snow. Brynjolf smirked and hoped it was that Ralof lad. If he hadn’t stopped them, Brynjolf wouldn’t have given that information to Rikke.

            “The Empire has its faults but it’s the most stable option,” Karliah said with a sigh.

            “Aye. Have you been to Windhelm? The place is a shithole.”

            “I know.”

            They reached Whiterun just after dark and much to Brynjolf’s pleasure, Callaina was at the Bannered Mare. She’d removed her Nightingale robes and donned her Journeyman ones, braided her hair loosely down her back, and was sitting in the corner with a bottle of Alto wine to hand. They made their way to her table and sat down. “Your idiot man decided to leave the Eyes of the Falmer behind because it would desecrate a statue of Auriel to remove them,” Karliah said exasperatedly.

            “That was smart,” Callaina said. “I’ve seen the power of Auri-El myself. Not wise to piss off a god of the sun when you need the light to make shadows.”

            “It gets better. The Stormcloaks and the Imperials are racing each other to the Jagged Crown,” Brynjolf said amusedly.

            “I have _no_ idea what you’re talking about,” Callaina said dryly. “Nor do I particularly care. Nenya’s acting Jarl in Falkreath until they can find someone appropriate for the Stag Throne.”

            “Well, well.” Brynjolf grinned wolfishly. “What happened?”

            “Siddgeir, if you can believe it, had written evidence of dealings with bandits at Embershard Mine _and_ the Thalmor. Dengeir had receipts of iron ore purchases from Ulfric Stormcloak. Legate Skulnar had the information delivered to him by a courier and both were arrested for treason.” She took a swig of wine. “Now I’ll just have to make it clear I’m not Jarl material.”

            Brynjolf could think of several uses a Nightingale-Jarl would have and no doubt Karliah could think of a few more, but he knew that Callaina was too intrinsically honest. Stealing, aye, but never that kind of corruption. It was endearing and a little exasperating all at once.

            “So now what?” he asked.

            “I check in with the College. That Eye… I can feel it from here. It’s a powerful artefact, probably Aedric.” Callaina smiled wryly. “Gods know we can’t let the College run around without adult supervision.”

            “Your Synodic training is showing,” Karliah said dryly.

            “The Synod has many, many faults, but its apprentices are well-trained and every promotion earned,” she replied with a sigh. “They just wouldn’t let me test for Journeyman until it was too obvious I was being held back. The College is disorganised, to put it frankly, and progression is based on the individual’s wealth. That’s why so many are working as sell-spells, because you need to pay for individual training. The Synod has a similar system… once you’re a Journeyman. Until then, you’re taught in classes for… maybe not nothing, but close to it after you’ve had your enrolment fee paid. If you’re an orphan sent there by the Workhouse or a poor person with an undeniable talent for sorcery, it’s free. If you’re a half-competent alchemist or enchanter, you can earn quite a bit of money selling potions and minor enchanted items, with a tithe going to the Synod.”

            Brynjolf echoed her sigh. “Will you come back to Riften?”

            “Of course. I’m just going to check in at the College, get a bit more Illusion training from Drevis, and come back.” Callaina smiled a little wearily. “I’ll need to do a few Guild jobs to pay for it.”

            “See? Everybody wins.” Brynjolf smiled at her. “What are your plans for the rest of the evening?”

            “Sleep,” Callaina said. “I haven’t slept for two days.”

            He sighed but nodded. “I understand, lass.”

            Her smile deepened. “I didn’t say we couldn’t share the bed. I won’t be leaving until around midday.”

            He grinned broadly. “Well then, lass. I’ll give you the grandest good morning you’ve ever had.”

            Karliah just shook her head and rolled her eyes.


	15. Under New Management

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

Callaina arrived at Winterhold and the village was still there. That was a start, she supposed as she walked up the solitary street to the College. Guards still patrolled desultorily, the Dunmer Steward still sat on the bench outside the inn doing nothing, and Birna still argued with Ranmir where everyone could hear them. When she reached the gate, Faralda was there, wrapped in white furs against the cold. “We were beginning to wonder if something happened to you,” the Destruction Master noted.

            “I had some other business to take care of,” Callaina admitted. “It… kinda happened.”

            “Guild?” Faralda asked and at Callaina’s stare, the Altmer laughed. “It’s an open secret around here. No one cares – so long as you don’t steal anything.”

            “If one of my colleagues finds out about the Stone of Barenziah in the Arch-Mage’s office, I can’t promise they won’t pay a visit,” Callaina said wryly. “Vex is obsessed with rebuilding Barenziah’s crown.”

            “That might make a useful security training exercise,” Faralda mused. “Still, it’s good to see you again. The Eye has been… behaving strangely.”

            “Of course it has. It’s an Aedric artefact,” Callaina pointed out.

            “The problem is that Ancano’s been studying it,” Faralda said grimly. “It’s powerful and we both know what the Thalmor plan to do.”

            “Indeed. I might have gotten back in time.” They were now walking along the bridge. “I should warn you that I have a permanent commitment that will draw me away from time to time.”

            “Enthir said as much. He said, and I quote, ‘She’ll be part of the Trinity, mark my words’.”

            “I can neither confirm nor deny that part. But I am now a Witch of Nocturnal.”

            “It’s been a while since we had a proper witch among us. The last was Catriona about sixty years ago, but she went back to Lost Valley to marry some Nord her family picked out for her. That was when Madanach was trying to be diplomatic instead of resorting to terrorism.” Faralda shook her head. “The College is religiously and politically neutral. We only draw the line at the darker Daedra like Molag Bal, Namira and Mehrunes Dagon.”

            “I assume you heard about the battle for Whiterun,” Callaina said as they walked along.

            “I did. We heard the Shouting from here. You were near there, right?”

            “Yes. It turns out that the Dragonborn is a Redguard named Cirroc. He only intervened because Whiterun was in danger and the Jarl had made him a Thane. Ulfric’s men were sent away with their tails between their legs.” She sighed. “I wonder if either side cares about those stuck in the middle? I have brothers on one side and an uncle on the other.”

            “I can sympathise with the Stormcloaks to a limited degree. But this blaming of all elves for the actions of the Thalmor? I’ve never seen Alinor in my life and I’d have been culled as a part-blood if I’d been born there.” Faralda echoed Callaina’s sigh. “All we can do is keep ourselves out of the fight and working to preserve knowledge.”

            “Egil’s actively fighting for the Stormcloaks. He’s going to wind up on a cross. Has Bjarni…?”

            “He’s still here. I think he’s very angry with his parents at the moment because of their lies.” Faralda sighed. “Give him time, Callaina. He’s a good kid with a bright future if we can keep him out of the rebellion.”

            “Mother and Ulfric will get everyone killed in the name of Talos. I’m not happy with the Empire but they’re the best of a bad lot of choices.”

            “I know the feeling.” They reached the College. “You better report to Mirabelle, let her know you’re here-“

            “Thank Julianos for small miracles,” Mirabelle said as she emerged from the Hall of Countenance with Bjarni at her side. “Callaina, it’s good to see you didn’t get yourself killed just after we made you Journeyman.”

            “I had some Guild business that was fairly urgent,” Callaina admitted. “As in ‘life or death’ urgent.”

            “I appreciate that. We’ve made some progress in studying the Eye and the Psijics returned. Without wasting much of your time in explanation, you need to take Bjarni and J’zargo to Mzulft. The Synodic team you were supposed to join are searching for the Staff of Magnus, which is somehow tied to the Eye.” Mirabelle pinched the bridge of her nose. “You were a Synod Journeyman. Maybe you can talk some sense into Paratus and his colleagues.”

            Callaina sighed. “Paratus Decimius is a prime example of connections triumphing over competency in Synodic politics. The man is a bloody idiot who doesn’t grasp that Cyrodiil isn’t all of Tamriel.”

            “Why do you think we told them to piss off?” Bjarni rumbled. “Hello, Callaina. You look… different.”

            “I’m a Witch of Nocturnal,” Callaina replied bluntly. “That means I have commitments outside of the College.”

            “Our last witch served Hircine, if I recall correctly,” Mirabelle noted. “Few of the Reach-folk come here.”

            “Yes. Faralda told me it was Catriona of Lost Valley.” Callaina smiled thinly. “I suppose I’m following in someone’s footsteps.”

            “Wait… The only Catriona I know of was my… our… grandmother,” Bjarni said slowly.

            “Yep,” Callaina confirmed wryly. “D’you reckon Mother knows she was a Witch of Hircine?”

            Bjarni laughed sourly. “I’d hate to be the one to tell her or Egil.”

            “I won’t be. If I never go to Windhelm, it’ll be too soon.” Callaina sighed and shook her head. “Can we leave in the morning? I just travelled from Whiterun and before that, Falkreath, and before that I came from Riften.”

            “A day or so won’t make a difference,” Mirabelle said sympathetically. “I’d appreciate a report about affairs in the south. I hear the civil war’s shifted balance.”

            “The Dragonborn defended his adopted city,” Callaina said frankly. “The Stormcloaks were, ah, persuaded to leave.”

            “They were massacred,” Bjarni said bluntly. “We weren’t ready and we weren’t expecting the Dragonborn to intervene.”

            “If you join the rebellion, you’re going to die,” Callaina told her younger brother. “I’ve seen what happens to rebels, Bjarni, what will happen to Mother, your father and probably Egil now he’s joined the fight. I’d rather not see more relatives on the cross, if you please.”

            “There’s more to it than Talos worship,” Bjarni said softly.

            “I know. But the Empire’s better than the alternative.” Callaina sighed and shook her head. “Just… think about it.”

            “You do as you must and I will do as I must,” Bjarni said soberly. “Go rest and we’ll travel to Mzulft in the morning.”

            Callaina nodded and headed towards the Hall of Attainment. People never learned.

…

“I think our luck’s back in,” Delvin told Brynjolf cheerfully as he entered the Ragged Flagon. “You know that unauthorised band we cleared out of Pinewatch in Falkreath?”

            “Aye,” Brynjolf said, accepting a flagon of mead from Vekel.

            “Turns out our big job in Markarth was to retrieve a silver mould for Endon,” Delvin continued, grinning. “Guess what we had to hand?”

            “Ha!” Brynjolf shared the grin.

            “Yeah. So, we’ve got Whiterun, Windhelm, Markarth and Riften under our control. Solitude’s well on its way and Thane Erikur’s already making noises.” Delvin grabbed a bottle of mead. “So what now?”

            “We need to get those bandits into line,” Brynjolf replied, sitting down at the bar. “I was nearly robbed four times getting home.”

            “That might be harder than you realise,” Dirge said from his post near the pool. “Thrynn tells me that some of them are Stormcloaks in hidin’. Just like them pirates breaking up trade on the coast.”

            “Charming.” Brynjolf drank some mead. “Whose idea?”

            “Probably the Stormsword’s. Ulfric’s too direct.” Dirge scratched his chin. “Is it true about Callaina being her daughter?”

            “Aye. She called her out after the business with the Butcher. Embarrassed Ulfric in front of his court.” Brynjolf smirked. “Then her brother Shouts his army arse over tit at Whiterun. Then I might have accidentally warned an Imperial patrol about the Stormcloaks at Korvanjund because they tried to detain me and Karliah. Before that, Callaina forwarded some very interesting information concerning her cousin and grandfather to the Legion. I’m guessing it isn’t Ulfric’s month.”

            “Things are laxer under the Stormcloaks but more prosperous under the Empire,” Vex said from her seat in the shadows. “Those bandits the Stormsword sponsors are getting out of hand. I’m not a patriot, but if I can help the Guild and the Empire at once, I think it’s a good thing.”

            “Mercer let a lot of things go because he was too busy milking us,” Brynjolf agreed. “I’m thinking we should do something about these bandits and pirates. It’d be a public service, it would.”

            “That’s us, regular upstanding citizens,” Delvin said with a straight face, only his snicker ruining the deadpan delivery.

            “Alright then. I want Thrynn and Sapphire on the bandits, Rune and Niruin on the pirates,” Brynjolf ordered in between a mouthful of mead. “Callaina’s got her hands full with the College because of some magic thing and Karliah’s gone to Solstheim for a bit. Legate Rikke’s a pragmatist, so I don’t think she’ll look too hard for the source of any information that helps the Empire.”

            Vex rubbed her hands. “My forte. Think I should steal the campaign chest too?”

            “…Vex, if I wasn’t with Callaina, I’d marry you,” Brynjolf said with a grin.

            “You two finally got around to it? Finally.” Vex was smiling, a rare thing for her.

            “Aye, lass. Just don’t tease her about it. She takes these things very seriously.” Brynjolf rubbed his chin. “Also, can you prepare a blackmail file on Maven? She was heavily involved with Mercer and now we’re coming back, I’d like to remind her sharply of her limits if she oversteps them.”

            “It will be my pleasure,” Delvin said smugly. “I’ve got enough to bury her.”

            “Good, good.” Brynjolf finished his mead. “I’m grateful for her support, but grateful doesn’t mean we’re her vassals.”

            “A-freaking-men,” Vex agreed.

            Brynjolf rose to his feet and clapped his hands. “Furthermore, we’re going to rule as a council. Guildmasters are fine things, but when they go bad… They go bad. Mercer did worse to us than you’ll ever realise. I never want to see that kind of abuse of power again.”

            “I can get behind that,” Tonilia agreed. Everyone else echoed her words affirmatively.

            Brynjolf allowed himself a smile. There would be checks and balances in place so that Mercer never, ever happened again.


	16. Revealing the Unseen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

“Damn.”

            Callaina closed Gavros’ eyes and picked up the silk-velvet pouch containing the focusing crystal. He’d been one of the better Synodic mages who passed through the Bruma chapterhouse on a regular basis and now he was dead because of Paratus’ carelessness. From the looks of it, frostbite and an infected wound got him. They should have had a competent alchemist with them.

            “Friend?” Bjarni asked.

            “No, but a respected colleague,” she replied. “If this is as bad as Irkngthand was, there’ll be Dwemer automatons in the upper levels and Falmer in the deeper. Stealth and speed will be key here, unless you two are masters of Destruction magic?”

            “J’zargo has no problem with sneaking,” the Khajiit said. “It is a practical way to get around inconvenient dangers.”

            “Agreed,” Bjarni said grimly. “Let’s go.”

            Khajiit were naturally noiseless on their feet but Bjarni… It was a good thing his Illusion magic was advanced enough to work on most creatures, because he wasn’t built for stealth. They wound up using Calm or Frenzy on various things, following it up with Fireballs from J’zargo if the Illusion spells didn’t work, and they found themselves going deeper and deeper into the ruins. Callaina saw the remains of a twenty-man Synodic team, including guards, and her anger grew. How could they be so unprepared?

            Eventually they reached the chamber where Paratus had locked himself in, complete with the machine that they’d been researching. “Aurelia Callaina!” the Evoker blurted out on seeing her. “I thought you were assigned to the Bruma chapterhouse?”

            “I was, but someone sent orders transferring me to this research team,” Callaina replied crisply. “These are Apprentice Bjarni and Journeyman J’zargo of the College of Winterhold. Given their familiarity with Dwemer mechanics in Skyrim, it made sense to reach out to them, particularly after Gavros’ death. I hold a place in their faculty, actually, but that’s a story for another time.”

            “I doubt that greatly,” Paratus said bluntly. “The Synodic Council decreed you were to never rise above Journeyman nor leave Bruma. You left without orders, didn’t you?”

            Callaina wished Brynjolf with his easy skill for lying was here. “The orders sent to me were forged, but it’s nice to have confirmation of what I’ve suspected for a while,” she admitted. “Since I won’t be returning to the Synod, I might as tell you what I really think of your operation. It was sloppy, poorly planned and you have no right to be in charge of a pot plant, let alone a research team.”

            Paratus went puce. “You arrogant little-“

            “I have the focusing crystal. What does this do?” Callaina interrupted, holding up the bag.

            “It focuses starlight collected by the machine to reveal great sources of magical energy in Skyrim,” Paratus replied. “I was given command of this team by the Elder Council. It’s high time the renegade magical institutions of the Empire be brought under the Synodic Rule.”

            “This is the kind of attitude that led to Skyrim’s rebellion,” Bjarni rumbled.

            “Rebellion?” Paratus asked stupidly.

            “Ulfric Stormcloak killed High King Torygg and declared civil war,” Callaina said grimly. “Which brought about the return of the dragons. I’d almost like to see you declare your Imperial authority in Windhelm, Paratus. The reaction would be amusing.”

            “And short-lived,” Bjarni grated. “How can you give allegiance to the Empire, sister, when such as this man run it?”

            “Sister?” Paratus repeated.

            “My mother’s married to Ulfric. Despite everything, I’m nominally allied to the Empire, because the Stormcloaks are the worse bet.” Callaina pushed aside the portly Niben-man and stalked up to the machine. “J’zargo, you’re the best Destruction mage. When I tell you, cast Frostbite and Flame until the crystal is focusing properly. I’ve seen this kind of setup before.”

            She put the crystal in the machine and J’zargo obeyed. Bjarni pressed buttons next to him until the mirrors of the Oculory were aligned to reveal a map of Skyrim. “Labyrinthian,” the young Nord said grimly. “Or Bromjunaar in the Dragonish tongue.”

            “Shalidor’s home. Makes sense he’d have the Staff of Magnus,” Callaina agreed with a sigh. “So now what?”

            “You’ve ruined it!” Paratus yelled. “Or was it sabotage? In the name of the Emperor, Aurelia Callaina, I hereby arrest-“

            J’zargo’s ice spike took him in the throat. “This one knows his sort. He would have caused much trouble for the College. Better to be rid of him now.”

            Bjarni patted the Khajiit on the shoulder. “Good job.”

            Callaina shuddered. She might be a Thief but cold-blooded murder never sat well with her. “You better hope they don’t come asking questions,” she told them. “Paratus was connected.”

            “He died with the rest of his friends in Mzulft,” Bjarni said calmly. “No lie there.”

            “You sound like Mother,” Callaina said, shaking her head. “Well, it’s done and we know where to go next. Report to the College or head straight there?”

            “Time is of the essence,” Bjarni said grimly. “We go straight to Labyrinthian.”

…

Brynjolf walked into Solitude, whistling as the captain was dragged into the Castle Dour dungeon for possessing Balmora Blue. Erikur was a piece of shit but he paid well for this job and now the Guild had control of Solitude’s seamy underbelly. They were now at the same level as they were under Gallus. So long as they kept Nocturnal in mind and the Key in its lock, they could only grow from here.

            He hired a room at the Winking Skeever for the night and indulged in a fine meal, complete with bottle of imported High Rock wine. It would have been good to have Callaina here, but he knew her hands were full with the College. Brynjolf was halfway through his meal when Cirroc Dragon-Born walked in, accompanied by the dark-haired lass who served as his huscarl. Their armour was unusual, bands of steel wrapped around the body like a serpent’s scales with gold-shot black silk sashes, and several of the older inhabitants choked on their mead or meat. “He’s wearing Blades armour,” hissed one of them to the innkeeper. “Get him out of here.”

            “You want to throw the Dragonborn out?” the innkeeper asked. “You throw him out.”

            “It’s okay,” Cirroc assured the man. “The Blades are… being restructured. They used to be dragon-hunters and scholars of the blade before Tiber Septim corrupted them into spies and assassins. I’m returning them to their original purpose.”

            It appeared the boy had balls of steel to go with his curved sword.

            “Elenwen’s going to have a heart attack,” the innkeeper said hopefully.

            “I’m already on her shit list. You’d think the Thalmor death squads would be more competent.” Cirroc shook his head in disgust. “Listen, do you know Tullius’ visiting hours? I need to talk to him.”

            “You can go up now if you want,” the innkeeper advised. “I bet he’ll make time for you if you’re joining the war.”

            “I’m not,” Cirroc said quietly. “I need a truce so I can pursue certain lines of information.”

            Well, that got a lot of people talking, and Brynjolf stuck to the shadows as the Blades left. His meal could wait. This kind of information could be useful.

            Tullius and Rikke were in the Castle Dour war room when Cirroc approached them. “Truce?” the General asked. “You’re joking.”

            “The dragons aren’t a joke,” Rikke said quietly. “The one who attacked Helgen was Alduin World-Eater.”

            “Look, Tullius, unless you have an Elder Scroll handy and a dragon who will spill the beans on Alduin, I need this truce,” Cirroc said with a sigh. “I know how much I’ll be asking of both sides. But unless you can literally end this war in two weeks, I need that truce.”

            “Has Ulfric said yes?” Tullius asked.

            “Not yet. The Stormsword’s still frothing at the mouth whenever the Aurelii come up, so I’ve had to send a courier with the request.” Cirroc’s smile was crooked. “I understand my sister’s frustration, but she could have shown a lot more tact when confronting Sigdrifa.”

            Brynjolf could agree with him to a certain extent.

            “Where would any truce meeting be held?” Rikke asked.

            “High Hrothgar. I managed to get the Greybeards off their arses for a change.”

            “Hmm, it could work, if Ulfric’s willing,” Tullius agreed grudgingly.

            “I can tell you now there will be territory exchanges involved in the demands. I hope you’re not attached to Markarth, because you’ll get Riften in return.” Cirroc’s pupils flashed red-green in the lantern light. “Ulfric won’t budge. Oh… and bring Elenwen along. She’ll give you a psychological advantage.”

            “If we’re going to lose a rich source of silver, you bet your arse we’ll be bringing Elenwen,” Tullius grated.

            “You won’t need to fear violence. Anyone who breaks the truce will be thrown from the mountain by me,” Cirroc promised. “So you’ll go?”

            “If Ulfric comes, I’ll be there,” promised Tullius.

            “Good. I’ll see you there in two weeks.” Cirroc nodded and walked out.

            “I’d heard the Dragonborn could see the future. Do you think we can trust him?” Rikke asked the General.

            “After Ulfric got the Jagged Crown, we have no choice.” Tullius took a deep breath. “See if we can’t get that crown back, Rikke.”

            Brynjolf smiled. “It can be done, lad… For the right price.”


	17. Retrieving Ancient Treasures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

Labyrinthian was a desolate ruin located where Whiterun met Hjaalmarch, its numerous steps overrun with frost trolls that needed to be set on fire before the trio could access the main entrance. When they arrived at the double doors and found no handle, Bjarni swore vilely, but Callaina simply wrenched them off their hinges with her Telekinesis. Inside, it was a tomb of winding tunnels… and apparitions that told the story of the previous College visit to Bromjunaar. A grim and sorry tale that painted Savos Aren in a much darker light.

            Every so often as they fought draugr, a rasping tone would mock them in Dovahzul and finally in Tamrielic of the most archaic sort. When Bjarni retorted in the dragon language, revealing his incredible talent for profanity, the voice fell silent. Like Callaina, the owner was probably thinking on the biological improbabilities of said sexual act and the logistics of where to find such diverse implements. Bjarni didn’t learn that from their mother and Ulfric was surely too grim to use such language.

            The entire sordid tale of Savos and his friends played out, ending in the wraith of the Arch-Mage sealing in his last two friends to keep the beast trapped. Callaina shook her head in disgust before opening the doors. Only the gods knew what led him to pursue such power and perform such acts.

            The ‘beast’ was a Dragon Priest. Since this had been the city of the Dragon-Priests, it was no surprise. This one called himself Morokei – ‘Glorious’ – and wore a silver-grey mask over his desiccated face.

            “So Savos sends magelings to clean up his mess,” the lich said with dark amusement.

            “No. We are here for the Staff of Magnus, the key to the Eye of Magnus, the orb we found in the ruins of dead Saarthal,” Bjarni replied in Dovahzul. “We have reason to believe that the Krisfahliil, the cousins of the snow elves, desire to use it with the goal of returning us all to primordial creation. I am sure you can agree that would be inconvenient for everyone.”

            “I see you can be as eloquent as you were obscene earlier,” Morokei observed. “…How would one perform such an act, anyway?”

            “Damned if I know,” Bjarni said cheerfully. “I said it to a dragon once and he crashed into the side of a mountain in shock.”

            “The dragons have returned?” Morokei asked.

            “Yes. Alduin is trying to eat the world but the high elves are trying to beat him to it,” Bjarni explained. “Akatosh spun out a new Dragonborn named Cirroc, so I think we can agree He is not happy with the World-Eater.”

            “What are they saying?” J’zargo hissed.

            “I think Bjarni’s trying to talk the priest into handing over the staff,” Callaina murmured.

            “Sahrok? An interesting name,” Morokei mused. “So Savos did not send you?”

            “No, and when we get to the College, we will be having words with him,” Bjarni said grimly. “I have no wish to fight you, Morokei, but we need that staff.”

            “A Nord not wishing to fight?” The Dragon-Priest sounded shocked.

            “We do not have the time to entertain you,” Callaina interjected. “You saw how we dealt with the guardian dragon. I am of Bron and Bruniik blood, my brother the Dovahkiin. You saw what I did to the doors. Think on what I can do to _you_.”

            “Dovah sos,” Morokei said grimly. “I have no wish to see Sovngarde while Al-Du-In devours the souls of heroes. Take the staff and be gone.”

            She caught the staff neatly and they left before the Dragon-Priest changed his mind. Just before they sealed the doors behind them, J’zargo killed the two enthralled mages with icy spears, to end their misery.

            “You told me at Mzulft I sounded like Mother,” Bjarni said once they were outside. “But by the gods, you were her spitting image in there.”

            “I suppose I was bound to inherit some personality flaws from her,” Callaina said with a sigh.

            “He called you ‘dragon blood’,” Bjarni said slowly.

            “So?” Callaina shook her head. “We need to get back to Winterhold.”

            On that they could agree.

…

Fifteen years since he’d visited the place and Ulfric still stored his prized possessions in the safe in his bedroom. Brynjolf entered after midnight and waited in a little alcove until the Jarl had gone in the morning before he snuck in. The lock was big and impressive, bound with corundum. He could have picked it with a crowbar using his left foot. A little jiggling and the door opened, revealing the ugliest damn crown he’d ever seen, a pile of septims and gems, and some paperwork that looked interesting. Brynjolf stole the lot, closed up the safe and locked it once again, and then snuck out. Since becoming a Nightingale, burglary had gotten almost tedious.

            He was about an hour outside of Windhelm when a whole bunch of Shouting came from the peak above High Hrothgar. Two dragons, one grey and the other black, duelled it out in the sky while someone kept on breathing fire. It ended with the black one falling through the clouds before flying away with a cry of alarm. He hoped that was a good sign.

            Sadly, some Stormcloaks had managed to arrive while he watched the dragon fight and one of them was that blond lad from Korvanjund. He didn’t look happy. And Brynjolf had already used the power of Shadowcloak today. Dammit.

            “I should have realised you were an Imperial spy,” Ralof said disgustedly. “Hand over the Jagged Crown and I’ll send you to-“

            He coughed as Brynjolf threw some coarse grey dust in his face and ran for his life. Powdered fly amanita and blisterwort. Nice little berserker poison to be used in the last extreme by a Thief.

            The Stormcloaks tracked him through the Aalto volcanic tundra and into the pine forests of the Velothi foothills. Ralof had sadly shaken off the poison and led the pursuers, which disappointed Brynjolf to no end and forced him to climb up a tree. Where the fuck was this supernatural luck Nocturnal promised Her agents?

            “Give me an axe,” Ralof ordered as he removed his warhammer. “We’ll need the wood to crucify this bastard.”

            “Now that’s just offensive,” Brynjolf retorted. “My parents were married, lad.”

            “They would be ashamed of you, no doubt,” Ralof said as he took an axe.

            “On the contrary, my grandma’s a Hag of Nocturnal, my mother was part of the Thieves Guild, and my da held the gates so Madanach could escape,” Brynjolf informed him mildly. “I’m walking in my family’s footsteps like any true Nord.”

            Callaina was going to kill him if he died on her. If he could somehow talk his way out of this…

            “You’re proud to be a Thief?” Ralof asked in disbelief.

            “Look, lad, my father was a member of Madanach’s guard. When you Stormcloaks rebel against your masters, it’s the will of Talos, but when the Forsworn do it we’re filthy heathens. When a lowlander bangs someone on the head and takes his stuff, it’s raiding, but when I take something without hurting a damn soul, I’m a criminal.” Brynjolf tsked. “Who’s the truer Nord?”

            “I lost good friends at Korvanjund,” Ralof said grimly, hefting the axe. “I will enjoy blood-eagling you.”

            Brynjolf sighed inwardly, consigned his soul to Nocturnal, and jumped out of the tree. He landed on one of the Stormcloaks, breaking his fall, and threw a knife at another that killed her instantly. He threw himself forward and rolled to his feet, drawing his Nightingale Blade as another two converged. “I’m going to enjoy killing you,” taunted one.

            Then several arrows fell from the sky and Ralof dropped the axe, ducking to make a smaller target of himself. The other two died as Niruin and Thrynn emerged from cover, a third rough-looking sort with them. “Hope you can run fast,” taunted Thrynn. “I hear Alduin likes to nibble on the souls of heroes.”

            Ralof decided that being a live coward was better than being a dead hero, running away. Typical lowlander.

            “Yes, I know, I got cocky,” Brynjolf said with a sigh. “Thank you for saving me.”

            “Don’t worry,” Niruin said cheerfully. “You can repay us later.”

            The third lad looked up at the sky. “Was them dragons fighting?” he asked hoarsely.

            “Aye. I think the black one was Alduin. Didn’t he run like a rabbit?” Brynjolf said. “That’s how they caught me. I was gawking.”

            “That’s… almost understandable,” Thrynn said. “So let’s loot these idiots and get out of here before Ralof comes back with friends.”

            They travelled deeper into the aspen forests of the Rift, following bandit trails only Thrynn knew. It turned out the new lad was Garthar, who followed Vex like a lost puppy after she tried to rob him after he tried to help her. Thrynn knew him from a previous band in Whiterun Hold. He was apparently part-Orc. Good, they could use some more muscle.

            “Brace yourself,” Niruin warned as they approached Riften. “The Imperials marched into the Rift and the Stormcloaks marched out as part of some truce. Guess who’s the new Jarl?”

            “Oh wonderful,” Brynjolf sighed. “Do we have that file?”

            “Yes, yes we do.”

            “Good. I want Maven on our leash. I don’t trust her now she’s got what she wants.”

            “Amen to that.”


	18. Luck in the Shadows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

The main street of Winterhold was scattered with dead people, strange blue wisp things and Faralda trying to put them down with firebolts. Callaina pointed the Staff of Magnus at one of the wisp and unleashed its power; it quickly faded into nothingness and she could feel her own magicka surging. Staff in one hand and lightning in the other, she eliminated the anomalies in short order, leaving strange crystals behind. “What happened?” she asked the Destruction Master.

            “While you were gone, Ancano got control of the Eye, sealed off the Hall of the Elements, and managed to kill Savos Aren,” the womer replied. “I hope it was worth it.”

            “Faralda, meet the Staff of Magnus,” Callaina said. “It’s what the Synod were looking for. Bjarni, J’zargo and I decided to go straight to Labyrinthian and collect it before coming here.”

            “I’m sorry. We’ve lost Arniel and Nirya. I don’t even know if anyone is alive on the other side of the bridge.” Faralda took a deep breath and gathered her magicka. “Lead on.”

            They crossed the bridge and came to the College’s courtyard, where the faculty were gathered, trying to break a Ward that encased the entire Hall. “We have the Staff of Magnus,” Faralda yelled for everyone to hear before turning to Callaina. “What should we do now?”

            Callaina planted the staff’s butt in the stone, chewing on her lip. “As is known, whenever a spell hits a Ward, it shatters for a moment. I’ll hit the Ward with this and when it falters… join your powers and keep the breach open.”

            “By your order.” Faralda turned to the survivors. “Mages of Winterhold! We’ve got a Thalmor trying to end the world and none of us really want him to success. On my mark, use Shock magic to keep that damned Ward down!”

            Callaina counted under her breath and raised the Staff once before slamming it down again. The Ward faltered… and then lightning crawled all over it, tearing a hole in the glasslike bubble. “J’zargo, Bjarni, go!” she yelled, following them into the breach.

            The Ward snapped shut behind them, slamming everyone else to the ground, but Callaina couldn’t check to see if they lived. She saw Mirabelle’s crumpled body by the gate to the Hall of the Elements, a charred smoking ruin that was probably Aren, and beyond them all was Ancano.

            “Callaina,” the Thalmor greeted. “Just give me a few more minutes and we’ll all be free of Lorkhan’s world-prison.”

            “You know, of all the mer, it’s been the Dunmer who learned the lessons of Shor the best,” Bjarni rumbled. “We were given this world to test our mettle, to prove ourselves worthy of immortality. What have the Altmer done but complain and scheme since then?”

            J’zargo simply unleashed fireballs at the Thalmor, who brushed them off disdainfully. He was so focused on Bjarni and J’zargo that he missed Callaina fading into the shadows and prowling the edge of the room until she was behind the Eye. She pointed the Staff at the glowing orb and drained its power, closing it down. Ancano swore and turned around… only to be struck in the lower back by J’zargo’s ice spike. Bjarni was on the Thalmor in moments, axe in hand and swinging.

            Callaina didn’t see the blow but she saw Ancano’s head roll to the left middle pillar. The Eye flared up once more, glowing so brightly that her closed eyes were red, and then it went inert… for now.

            “So, it is done.” Of course, now the fight was over, the Psijic Order arrived. “We will take the Eye now, for the world is not ready for it.”

            Callaina opened her eyes and regarded Quaranir with a raised eyebrow. “I don’t think so.”

            The Altmer blinked. “Excuse me?”

            “I know you and the Thalmor are mortal enemies,” she said. “But I, for one, am sick of Altmer claiming that they’re the only ones to handle magical artefacts. Who died and made you the arbiters of sorcery? I believe that’s why Galerion created the Mages’ Guild, to stop such bullshit elitism.”

            Quaranir opened his mouth but another Psijic spoke first. “It isn’t so much elitism as it is to make sure the Thalmor don’t get their hands on an Aedric artefact of this calibre. It might take the full convocation of the Psijics to banish it… and even then, I’m not sure we could. So we’d ward it and keep it safe.”

            “Or we can do one better,” Callaina said with a smile. “The gods don’t make things like this without a reason. I serve Nocturnal, the queen of night, luck and mystery. Let it be… set aside for a while. To be returned when it is needed at the final day, be that Alduin or some other threat. That would achieve the goal and we could lay some enchantments on the Staff to make sure only the one meant to use it could do so.”

            “What gives you the right to make that decision?” Quaranir demanded.

            “The Staff of Magnus does,” the other Psijic said dryly.

            Quaranir retorted with a phrase not worthy of his exalted rank.

            “I’m glad you concur,” Callaina said as she raised the Staff. _Uh, Nocturnal?_

 _Yes._ The Daedric Prince was quick to reply.

            _So we have a powerful Aedric artefact that needs hiding until it needs using. I’d rather not give it to the Psijics. Can we hide it?_

_Yes. Call the shadows and channel them through the Staff. I’ll do the rest._

Callaina obeyed and the Eye dimmed a little but remained. _Umm…_

“Where did it go?” Quaranir demanded.

            “Ebonmere,” Callaina said blandly. Had she turned it invisible?

            _I Shadowcloaked it,_ Nocturnal said amusedly. _Only the Staff-Bearer may see and use the Eye._

“Don’t,” warned the reasonable Psijic as Quaranir went orange with rage. “She’s linked to the Staff and the Eye. She could obliterate us if she wanted.”

            “Which I don’t,” Callaina said crisply. “The world nearly ended today, gentlemen. I don’t want to obliterate anyone. Not even the Thalmor.”

            She leaned the Staff against the Eye and Quaranir cursed again as it seemingly vanished. “If that’s it…?”

            Grumbling, the Psijics faded away except for the reasonable one. “I’m Nerien,” he said. “It’s my job to advise the next Arch-Mage.”

            “Don’t look at me,” Callaina said quickly. “I have prior commitments.”

            “Yes, we know, Nightingale,” Nerien said serenely.

            “Nightingale?” Bjarni asked stupidly.

            “Agent of Nocturnal,” J’zargo said shrewdly. “You know, Callaina, you think almost like a Khajiit.”

            “I’ll take that as a compliment,” she said dryly. “So, who’s going to be Arch-Mage?”

            Faralda was raised to Master Wizard after Tolfdir declined while J’zargo found himself wearing the Arch-Mage robes. Callaina could only assume they wanted to piss off Ulfric that little bit more.

            She left the College the next day and went to Winterhold. Jarl Korir had died in the anomaly attack and Kraldar made the new Jarl… and he invited in the Legion. This month was definitely not Ulfric’s.

            But since politics wasn’t really her concern, she caught a carriage for Riften. Hopefully, things would settle down for a bit while Cirroc saved the world.

…

“No.”

            One word but it brought Maven up like a horse at a fence. “Excuse me?”

            “No.” Brynjolf couldn’t help but grin at the stunned expression on her face.

            “I gave you an order.”

            “And we’re not your courtiers, Maven. You say that we owe our success to you… but you also owe yours to us.” Brynjolf pointed at the Jarl’s throne. “You’re in that chair because of us.”

            “I could destroy you,” Maven hissed.

            “Try, lass. Within the day, very embarrassing information concerning your sabotage of the Icerunner with Jaree-Ra and Deeja will be forwarded to the Legion. I just need my man in Solitude to deliver it.” Brynjolf’s grin widened. “Us being old friends, it’s only courteous to be honest with each other, aye?”

            Maven glared at him and stalked into the Jarl’s quarters, leaving Brynjolf and Hemming Black-Briar in the Great Hall.

            “She’ll try to sell you out to the Legion,” Hemming warned. “Was it wise to flaunt your hold on her?”

            Brynjolf smirked. “Old lass doesn’t know the half of what I’ve got on her. Your mother’s a very stupid woman for all her wits, Hemming my lad. Nocturnal dislikes the complacent… and she was very complacent because Mercer was too busy kissing her arse.”

            “Just watch your back, Brynjolf.” Hemming ran a hand through his hair. “I have to go sort out Ingun’s marriage to Saerlund. Why I’m in charge, I don’t know.”

            The Day Master nodded and took himself from Mistveil Keep. Maven would retaliate inevitably. She’d cut her nose off to spite her face. Thankfully, the Guild was prepared and already moving to new quarters.

            If her sabotage of the Icerunner didn’t settle Maven down, his control of her honey supplies would. Failing that, there were all kinds of deals she’d made and put in writing. If need be, he’d even reveal her hiring of the Dark Brotherhood, though that was a last resort as he had no desire to piss off the assassins.

            He was just outside Riften when the carriage rattled up, Callaina in the back. She looked exhausted and thin, her tawny robes stained from travel, but she was still the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. She dismounted and he embraced her fairly before she got to the ground.

            She rested her forehead against his and sighed. “So, the Thalmor nearly ended the world, I pissed off the Psijics and Nocturnal hid a powerful Aedric artefact. How was your week?”

            “I stole the Jagged Crown for the Empire, blackmailed Maven and the Guild’s now living at Goldenglow Estate,” he said with a smile. “Sounds like I had more fun.”

            “If you think that’s fun, imagine Ulfric’s face when he finds out the new Jarl of Winterhold is an Imperial loyalist and the new Arch-Mage is a Khajiit.” She wrapped her arm around his waist as they started to walk towards Goldenglow. “Cirroc’s already beaten Alduin once.”

            “I saw it. Then the Stormcloaks captured me because I watched,” he admitted wryly. “Who’s the big grey dragon?”

            “Paarthunax. Used to be Alduin’s second. I think some dragon named Odahviing is now.” Callaina sighed. “He’s one of the red dragons. They’ve got an innate need to serve those who best them in combat.”

            Brynjolf might have said something but a big red dragon flew across the sky, a Shouting figure that sounded suspiciously like Cirroc on its back. Callaina’s jaw dropped and Brynjolf had to admit he was a bit surprised himself.

            “Has he been taking lessons in Dovahzul from Bjarni?” she asked. “Because that’s something Bjarni would say.”

            “What did he say, lass?”

            Her cheeks flamed. “I’m not repeating it.”

            Brynjolf threw his head back and laughed. He had a lovely lass in his arms, the Dragonborn was on his way to kick Alduin’s arse, and Ulfric was in the process of being defeated.

            His luck had finally turned for the better in the shadows cast by dragon’s fire.


End file.
